


Requiescat III: And Peace Attend Thee

by dsa_archivist



Category: due South
Genre: M/M, Romance, Series
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2005-03-31
Updated: 2005-03-31
Packaged: 2018-11-10 13:27:12
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 35,277
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11127858
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dsa_archivist/pseuds/dsa_archivist
Summary: So near, and yet so far.





	Requiescat III: And Peace Attend Thee

**Author's Note:**

> Note from Speranza, the archivist: this story was once archived at [Due South Archive](http://fanlore.org/wiki/Due_South_Archive). To preserve the archive, I began manually importing its works to the AO3 as an Open Doors-approved project in June 2017. I tried to reach out to all creators about the move and posted announcements, but may not have reached everyone. If you are (or know) this creator, please contact me using the e-mail address on [Due South Archive collection profile](http://archiveofourown.org/collections/duesoutharchive).

Requiescat III: And Peace Attend Thee

## Requiescat III: And Peace Attend Thee

  
by Blue Champagne  


Disclaimer: I am poor and own nothing.

Author's Notes: Definite sequel happening. 

Story Notes: Uh, brief spoiler for the psychobitch.

SequelTo: Requiescat II: Touches, Changes

* * *

Requiescat III: And Peace Attend Thee   
  
***  
  
"So, Turnbull. Why you wear those competition pantaloons when you're just practicing, anyway?" Ray wondered, shifting the toothpick in his mouth to the other side.  
  
Turnbull didn't say a word. He just slowly lifted his eyes to Ray's, looking out from under his lids to where Ray sat perched on the edge of the reception desk, and *looked* at him.  
  
Ray, having fully intended to fluster Turnbull up, found himself feeling hot under the collar. "Uh. Ahm..." He suddenly reached up and removed the toothpick. "Um. Yeah. I guess that's kind of a stupid question, isn't it?"  
  
Turnbull still didn't speak, didn't move--except for the quirking of one corner of his mouth, and the raising of the eyebrow on that side.  
  
"Coming from me, it's a stupid question," Ray nodded, utterly defeated.  
  
Turnbull, barely controlling a smirk, looked back down at the envelope he was addressing. "I wear comp gear so as to remain used to the additional constriction--I have a very difficult time finding stirrup pants long enough--and the distraction of the fabric on my skin, of course," he said. "Perhaps it's true I'll never compete again, but if, by some miracle, I did...I need every advantage I can get." With the briefest of loaded glances at Ray, he got up, taking the rest of the mail with him, and headed for the front door.  
  
"Oh, you got every advantage I could *want*," Ray muttered, too quiet for anyone to hear him, following Turnbull with his eyes.   
  
He caught a flash of shining chestnut and whirled, coming up off the desk, so startled he reached for his gun, stopping his hand as it seized the weapon's grip. So the comment had, apparently, been too quiet for anyone except Thatcher, who was standing right behind him, to hear, at least. He'd been so distracted by Turnbull and everything...  
  
"Um...oops?" he tried, with a shot at a disarming smile.  
  
Stunning the living shit out of him, she smirked. "Bored, Detective?" He was stunned yet again--he was gonna fall over if this kept up much longer--to see her giving Turnbull's back the once-over as he strode out to dump the mail in the bin. "It's a pity their tunics are so long, isn't it?"  
  
"Uh..."  
  
Suddenly there was a total change in her demeanor as the door closed behind Turnbull's exit. "I will not have you ogling my officers, Detective! Such behavior is disrespectful in the extreme, and it's *my* responsibility to see they're safe from such harassment in their working environment. Do we understand each other?"  
  
Ray grinned, then cleared his throat and looked properly chastened. "Totally. I understand. My apologies. Won't happen again." He muttered then, at what he realized must be a volume that, while normal humans would never be able to decipher it unless it was uttered right in their ear, all three of these weird-ass supermountie types could hear at considerably more distance: "If anyone can see."  
  
"I'm glad to hear that." She replied to the first part of what he'd said, turned--she wasn't smiling, but there was a wild look in her eyes that said one was trying to break out; she'd heard, all right--and stomped back into her office, shutting the door.  
  
From down the hall, near the staircase, came the sound of a truly frightening giggle.  
  
"You sonofa--! How long have you been standin' there?"  
  
Fraser emerged from the shadows with a hand to the lower part of his face, trying to regain his composure. "Ahemhm, hm, mm, ah, yes, I--" he broke up again and was forced to turn around this time. Ray had recently found--he'd found out a whole lot about them both, post-king-size--that Fraser had a giggle that could be used before a jury as justification for murder, if there were any way to make a dead guy giggle for a jury. He supposed he'd better make himself a tape recording and get it notarized, dated, legitimized, whatever the hell you did with a tape recording, just in case. Apparently, Fraser had just never giggled in front of Ray before. Or, Ray was willing to bet, any other way, for a damn long time. Though he *was* willing to admit that other people might not find his giggle so maddening, since it was damn near almost always Ray he was giggling at. And hell, on the rare occasions Ray had heard the softer giggle *not* directed at himself, it hadn't bugged him then, either. But man, under the wrong conditions...no wonder Fraser almost never did it.  
  
"Long enough," said Turnbull, answering Ray as he opened the door and came back in. He was smiling pleasantly. "He was on his way up when you asked me about my workout gear. Something must have distracted him at that point."  
  
"My lanyard--it--it was coming unfastened," Fraser managed, still half-bent over and facing the other way.   
  
"Of course, sir, if you say so," Turnbull said, resuming his seat and turning to the computer. "We certainly can't have a sloppy uniform on duty." He added, under his breath, "No matter the length of the tunics."  
  
Ray buried his face in one hand. "You people are gonna be the death of me and I ain't joking, you're weird, weird, *weird*! You heard her? And me? That far away? *I* barely heard her."  
  
"Yes, and she can probably hear us," Turnbull told him, as he moved the mouse around to shut the station down. "If she's listening for us, that is, which I'm sure she isn't. She'd honestly rather not know. Which is why she said what she did, Ray."  
  
"Um, yeah, hear no evil, see no evil, deal with no evil reporting of it and evil paperwork and shit, yeah, I got that," Ray sighed. "Fraser, are you gonna get it together or do you just really like it there by the stairs in a squat?"  
  
"Ahem." Fraser finally got his usual demeanor restored and in place, and, actually, did adjust his lanyard a bit as he came forward. "I'm quite fine now, Ray, thank you for asking. Turnbull? Are you ready to go?"  
  
"One moment, if you please....and...there." The computer screen went dark and Turnbull stood, picking his hat back up from the desk. "I'm all set."  
  
"Let's get the hell out of this psych ward." Ray bolted for the door. He didn't even want to think about what might be going on behind him that he would have no way of picking up on.  
  
"Besides," Fraser said, as they made their way to the GTO, "a certain feeling of camaraderie over our mutual predicament has established itself with the three of us, over the years we've all been here. If anything happens that's outside the usual parameters, well...that's our business. And only our business. The inspector was just...letting you in on that."  
  
"I'm beginning to see that. I feel like I oughtta call the station and let 'em know what time I'm goin' in every time I come over here, just to be on the safe side." He started the car. "You three are like the polite, well-dressed, Canadian Addams family."  
  
"Oh, we are not," Fraser snorted, rolling his eyes.  
  
"Really? I hear about clerical staff, I hear about the janitorial staff, but I never *see* 'em," Ray said, checking the rearview mirror--and catching a glimpse of a smirking Turnbull--before he pulled out. "I think they're scared shitless of you three."  
  
"Ray, that house has something like twenty rooms. You don't see them because they work in the areas where the filing and faxing and collation and binding of reports and such is *done*. Turnbull is the inspector's personal assistant, and the receptionist; he doesn't handle those particular jobs himself, any more than I do. And you don't see the janitorial staff because, unlike at your place of employment, our cleaning staff work only after business hours, except for the groundskeepers; the only times you would see them would have been if you were there to see me, and frequently that's been quite long after *they* get done as well. Four in the morning..." he sighed.  
  
"You still haven't gotten over that one?"  
  
"I think it was the fact that you picked the consulate lock with a credit card that bothers him," Turnbull supplied.  
  
"It's undignified," Fraser muttered.   
  
"Yeah, well, it worked."  
  
"Is that the bottom line for everything with you?" Fraser wondered.  
  
"It's the bottom line for the world, Frase," Ray grinned, slapping Fraser a few times in a comradely fashion on the knee. "Bottom line for the world."  
  
"He has a point," Turnbull murmured.  
  
"Don't *you* start."  
  
Turnbull giggled. Now, Ray really liked Turnbull's giggle. He had kind of a weird squealing heeheehee too, but you usually only heard it when he was doing it on purpose to communicate smug satisfaction. The giggle, though, was cute, like Turnbull. Even when he was giggling at Ray, which wasn't all that often in terms of total giggle time, it was hard to get pissed at it. Probably because he was more used to it.  
  
"Okay, weekend coming up, so plans. Fraser's got half his stuff at my place already, but as long as we're out and on the way home, do you wanna go by your place, Turnbull? 'Course, if anybody needs anything whenever, we can get it then, and that includes privacy. Our plans are pretty packed together for a while. Sometimes you just need private space and anybody is allowed to ask for it, any time."  
  
"We *all* know what we *all* decided should be mentioned, Ray," Fraser said, tiredly but calmly.   
  
"I know, but that one's important. 'Cause *I* won't be wanting to get out of arms reach of either of you for a while, so you two should remember it. I don't know about you guys, but I'd be happy to be hot-glued to you both. I'm in honeymoon la-la." He grinned as Fraser laughed. "Turnbull? Want a stop at your place?"  
  
"Um..." Turnbull ceased to grin at Ray's statement of happiness; if he ever truly squirmed while wearing his reds, he'd be squirming now. "I'm sure I'll be fine."  
  
"Turnbull...we don't have to come up," Ray said. "You don't want us in, then we don't go in. If that's your limit--"  
  
"That isn't it," Turnbull said, and slumped, looking exhausted and in pain. "It's not like--I don't want you to--I want to *explain*, I want...I want a lot of things...but I can't." His voice was almost inaudible by the end of the sentence, and Ray nearly pulled over right there in the middle of traffic and climbed into the back seat.  
  
He did the next best thing, talking. "Okay...it isn't a space thing. But we still can't come up--whether even you like it or not, it sounds like--and you can't tell us why. I got it. I can live with that, Turnbull, okay? Believe me? Fraser?"  
  
"It's all right with me, too, Turnbull," Fraser said quietly. "So, then, shall we stop? Is there anything you need?"  
  
Turnbull said, in a small voice, "Yes. It should only take a moment. I'm sorry I...I'm sorry--"  
  
"Turnbull, don't. Just don't. Don't say that, and don't feel that way, there's nothing to be sorry about, nobody's mad at you! Believe that, okay? Okay?" Ray said. "Give me a break, please, Turnbull, I'm driving. I wanna hug you, and I can't."  
  
Fraser immediately reached an arm back over the seat, and Ray shot him a look of gratitude--if he couldn't do it, Fraser touching Turnbull right now felt next best. "Turnbull," Fraser began as Turnbull took the offered hand. "It's really all right. We've all...been to some difficult places, and we all have a great deal of things to deal with that require some...nonstandard understanding, from anyone close to us. And we all have experience with things that are almost impossible to explain. Neither of us will judge you for that."  
  
"I know you won't, really," Turnbull said, "I do."  
  
Ray smiled. "That's good, real good." Time to break the mood, the spotlight-on-Turnbull that was making him feel bad. "Okay, I got a question--you guys *knew* the ice queen checks you out sometimes? Both of you, from the sound of it?"  
  
"Of course we knew that," Turnbull said. "We're trained observers. She knows we've done the same with her, too. And each other," he added in his cute-little voice, smiling the smile that went with it. He wasn't letting go of Fraser's hand, and Fraser turned toward Ray in the seat to make the position more comfortable. Turnbull leaned forward and rested their joined hands on the seat back.  
  
Ray was freaking. "She--and she doesn't do anything?!"  
  
Fraser said "If Turnbull or I were ever to actually behave inappropriately with her--or each other, on duty--I'm sure she'd have to take some kind of action, even if it were only a verbal reprimand," Fraser said. "But as an extremely beautiful woman who's been in the RCMP most of her adult life, and has the skills necessary to attain the rank she has at her age--which age I believe is about the same as mine, though she looks younger--she can hardly be unaware that Turnbull and I would at least *notice* her in that way. What's important is what we do about it. As long as it has no significant affect on anyone's job performance or comfort in the workplace, she has no reason to take any action."   
  
"Some people would...well, they'd at least kinda unofficially take action, or take official action for unofficial reasons."  
  
"The inspector is not a hypocrite," Turnbull said. "She admitted even to you that she has...amused herself, on occasion, with the...er, help of constable--"  
  
"We're off duty," Fraser reminded him.  
  
"--of Fraser and me. Sorry, Fraser. It's a reflex. And I still have the uniform on."  
  
"Mm," was all Fraser said, though he nodded, and still held Turnbull's hand.  
  
Ray added "He's right. I always call you Fraser or Frase anyway. At work, he *has* to call you sir or constable. He addresses you, it has to be with an honorific. You call him Turnbull, on and off work."  
  
Fraser looked blankly out the windshield. "You're right, of course."  
  
They pulled up to Turnbull's apartment building at that point, and Turnbull let go of Fraser and got out of the car like pirhanas were eating his shorts and bolted inside, which, for Turnbull, especially in the boots, meant taking about two strides across the sidewalk before he was there and through the door.  
  
"You still got a problem," Ray said. "Why? It's probably just the reflex, like he said. I'd have a hard time remembering, too, if I always called you something different while we're working."  
  
"It's just that I told him...I know I'm not being fair, since I did tell him he could call me by any version of my name, off duty, including Fraser...but that also includes Benton, and I specified that too...I just wonder sometimes why he chose my last name."  
  
"Uh, maybe because it's what I call you. He might think you prefer it, and just told him your first name was okay because he might rather..."  
  
Fraser said nothing, and his expression remained unchanged, except his frown line grew a little deeper.  
  
Ray got the message. "You want he should call you Benton?"  
  
"I...yes, I suppose..."  
  
"Why not just ask him to? We call him his last name 'cause it's what he likes. He'd understand having something you'd rather be called. Renfield Aloysius. Holy Christ on a bike. What could a newborn do to piss their parents off that bad?"  
  
"Renfield is actually a fairly nice name, I think, if it weren't for the Bram Stoker association. It simply means 'field of rowan trees.' But the popular linking of the name with the bug-eating character has ruined it for most, I realize that." Fraser drummed his fingers on his hat brim, then reached up and stroked at his eyebrow. "I think...what I want is less for him to call me that, than for...for the particular situation that would precipitate...for the emotional climate to make it natural...to...be there." Then he looked miserable, more for the fact that he knew he was being totally indecipherable than any other apparent reason.  
  
Ray sorted through that a moment, then said "You want him to *want* to call you that more than you actually want him to...call you that." Ray shook his head at the sentence. Not doing much better than Fraser. "Yeah. Anyway, your first name, I mean."  
  
"That's a shorter version, I suppose, yes," Fraser said. "I think...like the way we've discussed, that he's...difficult to reach in some ways, that he's behind barricades, and that it's something we'll simply have to let him deal with at his own pace, with whatever help from us he requests, of course...well, that simply...his calling me Fraser plays it up, to me, because I think he's the kind of person who would have chosen my first name, under other circumstances. And I'm...new at...Ray, this is the first thing even remotely like a healthy adult relationship I've had, at this level of intimacy..."  
  
"Yeah. I'm hearing you, Frase. I got you," Ray said quietly, with a reassuring hand to Fraser's knee, holding it gently.  
  
"He...when he calls me by a...less intimate name than he could be using...it doesn't make any sense, Ray--*you* call me Fraser, and I'd probably feel odd--at first, at least--if you called me anything else. Sometimes you use endearments, especially--when--if we're--"  
  
"In bed, whether it's in bed or not," Ray supplied for him.  
  
Fraser smiled his thanks, continuing "--which is nice, by the way. The endearments, I mean. Just so you know, since I'm not much for using them, myself. But that's not the same as what I mean--a consistent name usage."  
  
"Okay, so, you're new at bein' open with people, feeling it, and not being afraid, and when he calls you Fraser, it sounds like he's holding back; and that..."  
  
"It makes it more difficult for me to be open, myself," Fraser murmured at his hat. "I'm...I suppose it's my fault, for expecting him--since he's so much more emotional himself--to be doing the better part of the work in that area, and...if he doesn't..."  
  
"You don't like being in the responsible position."  
  
"That's it," Fraser said, in a low monotone; "shaming as it is to admit it--Ray, I couldn't be doing this at all, if I didn't know how important communication is in our situation--God, talking about these things--" he shook his head rapidly. "In any case, I...think that I have to...take the lead, as it were, when he does that, as if I were...oh hell--"  
  
"Okay, enough, buddy, you can get back in the protective suit for a while now," Ray said, and Fraser's eyes flashed up at him, but apparently he could see the utter lack of fun-making happening--Ray was perfectly serious, and he expected Fraser to see that, and so Fraser did.   
  
"I *know* it's hard for you," Ray said softly, "it's not easy for any of us, which is kinda the point of what you're saying. I got you. You feel like it's putting you in a position you're not ready to be in. It throws you off balance, when it becomes obvious Turnbull's behind maybe as many barricades, like you put it, as you. It just doesn't show with him, because he *is* more emotional, he feels more, shows it more; he's way more comfortable with it. And when you bump up against a place that *does* have tape around it, you don't know what to do except..."  
  
"...what I always do," Fraser whispered, "that I'm trying to learn *not* to do. Back away and hide, too."  
  
"It's good you said something," Ray told him, covering one of his hands and squeezing it with his own. "It's good. We'll tell him, too, but we'll make sure we do it so it doesn't sound like an attack on him--and it'll sound like some kind of accusation to him even though it isn't, because he feels guilty about the way he has to hide. He's as much as said so, and he shows it all over the floor, all those sorrys. We'll wait'll we get home, get some dinner in us, get relaxed. Right now he's pretty worked up as it is, over this stopping at his place thing."  
  
"Yes, of course," Fraser said, nodding. "Ray..." he looked up. "Thank you. For being so tolerant of my...lack of aptitude. It would be one thing if it were just you and me, but you even help when it's me and Turnbull whom the difficulty lies between."  
  
Ray grinned. "An' he helps when it's me and you the difficulty lies between. For one, he was a lifesaver over the bad feet weekend. Translated for you real well, when you had your sad thing happen, your...epiphany." Ray spoke gently.  
  
"Yes. I recall. You're both...much better at this than..." he shook his head. "I mustn't allow myself to start...the self-berating that you're quite right to call me on..."  
  
"Frase, now you're feeling guilty for feeling guilty. Just remember I love you, and he loves you, and let it go, here. We *love* you. Nothing could be *that* bad if we love you anyway, right? Take a deep breath and let it go, get it out of your head, throw it out for the moment. Just *stop*."  
  
Fraser inhaled, and exhaled slowly. Then he smiled. "I reduced my heart rate a bit as well."  
  
Ray grinned. "That's good, if it was getting too excited. Tell it to save that for the good stuff. And speaking of good stuff, it's back--"  
  
Fraser chuckled and the car door opened and shut, as Turnbull got in with a small green canvas tote. "I'm ready. Thank you for waiting."  
  
"Not a problem," Ray said, starting the car and pulling back out into traffic. "I'd offer to stop for take-out, but I'm guessing at least one of you'll object. More likely both."  
  
"I'll cook tonight," Turnbull piped up at once, and Ray and Fraser both smirked.   
  
"Do we need to stop at Dean's for anything?" Ray asked.  
  
"I believe I still have all the basics at your apartment --no, I think tonight...a quick teriyaki beef marinade--we can stop at the grocery for some stir-fry cut beef to speed dinner along. Turning a roast into suitable pieces would take a good deal of effort."  
  
"You're gonna make a beef thing? Cool." Ray smiled. "And yeah, my roast and a wok are two things that shall never meet. Cool; your healthy beef stuff tastes good, unlike Fraser's, which tastes like it's good *for* me. But the furface'll flip if he doesn't get any."  
  
"He can have his bite before the sauce becomes a factor," Fraser said. "His diet's been far too high in sodium lately."  
  
"I'll be sure his portion is healthy for him," Turnbull said. "I'll set things aside as I go. And I'll keep the salt level down in the side dishes. How has Diefenbaker liked staying in your apartment the last few days, Ray?"  
  
"He's not thrilled about being shut in all day 'til I--or me and however many of you--get home, except at noon when the landlady gives him the bare necessities walk, but he hasn't destroyed anything."  
  
"I apologize for the inconvenience, but really, he reacted quite badly to the carpet shampoo."  
  
"It's pretty much over with by now, right?"  
  
"Yes, I should be able to take him home Monday morning."  
  
"Then he lived through it and so did I. Actually...it was kinda nice having him there. I'm starting to really get used to company again," Ray finished in a small voice.  
  
"Fraser and I are plenty of company, that's certain," Turnbull said. He was glowing a little. Probably at being included in the concept of 'company', not as in 'guest' but as the more intimate meaning, 'companion'. It was odd getting used to, how Turnbull'd seem overjoyed at one moment at evidence of being welcome in Ray's apartment and in his--and Fraser's--lives, then sometimes seemed overwhelmed, not with nervousness or even just an active lack of enthusiasm, but with genuine sadness--at the *very same* things. He was easily moved to cry--or to tear up and control it, with greater or lesser degrees of success--so you couldn't gauge too well how intensely he felt about various different things by that, either.   
  
And as Ray drove, it he felt inundated, again; he supposed he'd eventually get used to it, but in the meantime; these two--right now, Fraser was pretty withdrawn; but Turnbull was radiating, there were tingling, deep-reaching waves coming from him, there in the back seat, and right to and through Ray in the front seat. It had taken a while, near on to a year, before he'd really began to feel the waves that fanned out from Turnbull--for one thing, whatever was going on around Turnbull had a tendency to get into him so powerfully it was probably a mutual thing--it changed, because things got into Turnbull, as well--and so, not as easy to notice as with people who just dumped out, dumped out, dumped out.   
  
But he could feel Turnbull now, even at a distance. Boy, could he. He could feel Fraser down to the angstrom by this time, could feel when he was going to move, what he was thinking--at least, if they were both on adrenaline rushes and, as always, knew that their mutual awareness was happening. It'd saved their lives more than once.   
  
Turnbull was different. That, to put it mildly, wasn't shocking, but damn...it was like there was a static field all around him, a cloud of something, something that...sung, buzzed, sparkled. Whatever was around Fraser was more lyrical, more...sweeping, broad, maybe more encompassing, but less personal. Which was hardly surprising. Fraser was less personal. He was...large. He contained multitudes.  
  
Turnbull contained Turnbull--but he was aware, aware of everybody and everything, in a way beyond excess-capacity sight and hearing and such--in a way Fraser wasn't, for all his multitudes.  
  
Ray loved them both, just like they were. He didn't think they were perfect or anything, though they came pretty close, if you asked him, especially Fraser if one was speaking in a general sense. He just wished they were *happier* just like they were--or maybe not happier, per se. Maybe...less confused. He wished they were like *they* wanted to be, or, maybe, that the way they were *was* just the way they wanted to be.   
  
He didn't say out loud "Because *I* sure like you," but he thought it, with a deep-seated think that went right through the floorboards.  
  
But then, hell. They probably felt just the same way about him, as far as all that went.   
  
***  
  
"He's open he's open Go go go GO GO that's it, cartwheel the bastard GOGOGOGgg--*SHIT*!"  
  
"Hawks suck," Fraser said blandly from his seat in front of the couch, where Turnbull and Ray were--kind of--sitting on it; he was positioned between both their right legs, and had Ray's bedroll unfurled beneath him. Ray had intended to take it, and had, but somewhere during the game they'd ended up like this. Turnbull had started out on the yellow chair, too, with his knitting bag, but knitting and hockey somehow just didn't go together, he'd found, and abandoned it, coming back from the kitchen with another beer for Ray, and joining him on the couch. Well, kind of. Ray didn't say anything, didn't move his eyes from the screen, just took the beer, draped his legs around Fraser in a leg-hug, and pulled Turnbull over onto him with an oof from both of them. That didn't last long; Turnbull couldn't stay horizontal for long on a loveseat without major body parts going dead, even though Ray had tried to help; so now he was Ray's recliner, when Ray hadn't jumped up standing--right over Fraser, considering where they were all situated--and was waving his arms and punching air and swearing and giving body English to the puck. And, occasionally, the players, or it could've been their sticks; it was impossible to be sure.  
  
"Shut up. Canadians don't get to say that."  
  
Fraser smiled and didn't answer, sipping his lemon water.   
  
Turnbull had noted that Ray told Fraser to shut up, and said similar rude things to him, on a surprisingly frequent basis--not that often, but still often enough to surprise Turnbull. But he'd noticed that a long time ago, and concluded it was simply Ray's way, as brusqueness was simply inspector Thatcher's. Early on, he'd been subjected to Ray ignoring him in a rudely dismissive fashion, but he'd never regularly said the sorts of things to him he did to Fraser. He'd wondered if he should feel slighted, then decided that by the time Ray knew him well enough to have a manner with him distinct from his default manner, he'd decided that wasn't the way to relate to Turnbull.   
  
Sometimes Turnbull still thought, though, about it all, when the two of them--Ray and Fraser--exchanged insults--loud and/or boorish on Ray's part, snippy and/or obscure on Fraser's. Their love was so very obvious. He wondered that they weren't ever suspected. Of course, *they* hadn't suspected, either. When Turnbull mentioned it to Fraser while they shared Ray's bed those weeks ago, Fraser hadn't known what to make of it. His admiration for the man was boundless, but there was a side of him that made him think "poor, sweet, beautiful Fraser. How does he get through the day?"   
  
Ray collapsed backward onto him. Turnbull felt a little thrill, trying not to just grab him and run his hands over all that gorgeous exposed wiriness, as Ray was in a black tank top, black jeans, and bare feet. He'd shaved--he'd taken to shaving a lot more often lately--and as always, it made his pink lips and bright, long-lashed eyes stand out more. "Man. You give your trust to a team, your investment, your..."  
  
"...your favor?" Fraser asked.  
  
"Your favor--I guess--"  
  
"He means in the sense of giving a favor, a token, to a knight about to enter the lists--a ribbon, a flower, some such thing--to show to all that this particular knight is the one you favor above the others," Turnbull explained.  
  
"Yeah, like that. You give it to this team, and this team acts like a bunch of baby sea turtles on ice," Ray lamented on, "*bapping* at the puck like they've never seen one before, just flipping their flippers, 'cause really all they want to do is get to the water anyway, or in this case the penalty box."  
  
Fraser chuckled.   
  
"How *is* Semimodo?" Turnbull asked politely, working his hips under Ray a little to get him settled more comfortably. He was sitting back in the corner of the love seat, Ray against his front, which was how Fraser managed to be between both their right legs--Ray's across his shoulders, and hanging off the left; Turnbull's with knee bent, lower leg to Fraser's right. Occasionally Fraser'd shift around and sometimes lean against one or the other leg, back against Ray's thigh, or tilt to rest his head on Turnbull's knee.   
  
"He's good. I took him to the vet last week. He got a supplement, and I got him a new light; they've got a better one out these days. Easier on their eyes, works just as well otherwise."  
  
"I'm so glad he's doing well, then. Will he be joining us this evening?"  
  
"Nah, not on hockey nights. I'm afraid he'll get hurt."  
  
"Of course, of course. Very sensible."  
  
"And the mutt's here."  
  
"Ray, Diefenbaker has *no* interest in your turtle--how many times am I going to have to say that before you--he can't eat it, it doesn't want to play with him, and I would make sure he saw nothing edible but kibble for months if he bothered it in any way, which he knows, because you wouldn't intervene for him and neither would Turnbull, not if he picked on a smaller animal. The worst that could happen is he'd sit or lie on it, and that would only last long as it took him to realize he was lying on something hard and get up again."  
  
Ray gave him a two-handed pointing-at. "Don't call Semmy an it, asshole."  
  
Fraser smirked. "I merely meant that he's an it from Dief's point of view, Ray. Calm yourself. You're letting the impending debacle of the Hawk's crushing defeat color your--"  
  
"That's it--" Ray took a sofa cushion and began to beat Fraser severely about the head and shoulders. Turnbull sat back and away, arms pulled against himself, looking nervously on at the seemingly genuine viciousness with which Ray went at it. Fraser, however, just closed his eyes, smirking, and didn't move at all for the first few blows, except to be rocked by them and get his hair messed up; then he reached up and grabbed the cushion, and he and Ray wrestled for a few moments, grinning, for control of the weapon, ending with Fraser giving a sharp enough yank that he got it away from Ray, even with one hand to Ray's two.   
  
"God," Ray sighed, falling back against Turnbull with a plop, causing the latter to move his arms out of the way in the nick of time, "it's not fair. You're so fucking strong."  
  
"Less strength than leverage of position," Fraser disagreed. "I just didn't want a headache from all that pounding. The game's back on."  
  
"Your hair's a mess," Ray pointed out, and Turnbull could hear the smile in his voice. He rested an arm around Ray's body, enjoying the feel of all the exertion-induced panting; Ray automatically hugged it lightly with both his own.  
  
"Fix it for me."  
  
"You got *that*." Fraser leaned back and Ray moved his leg so that Turnbull could lean up with him and still hold him pressed against himself while Ray finger-straightened Fraser's hair. "I love your hair. I'd kill to have this hair."  
  
"I love it too," Turnbull added, smiling. "I think everyone does."  
  
"Everyone but me," Fraser reminded them. "It's got a mind of its own."  
  
"Which it has made up completely. The stuff doesn't move. Ever, hardly, unless you really whack the hell out of it like I just did," Ray scoffed.  
  
"Do you know what I have to do to--? Well, short of keeping it sheared to a length so extreme that I have to have it trimmed every single week--I've tried doing it myself with an electric trimmer; that short, with a guard, one wouldn't think there'd be anything to it. One also wouldn't think it would be possible to end up looking so...asymmetrical, with the guard set so low. My only two attempts left me looking like a radiation victim. But I'm still thinking of going back to that length; it's gotten wavier over the years, and more troublesome apace."  
  
Ray shook his head. "No way. This stays. I like this."  
  
"It's my hair and I'll do what I want." My, Fraser certainly seemed to want to provoke Ray into *something* this evening. "You realize I may have to cut it now just to prove that?"  
  
"Okay, then how about if I beg?" Ray rolled off the sofa and onto his back on the floor in a fluid motion that Turnbull would have had to have been concentrating as though he were in his gym whites practicing to perform, ending up with his head in Fraser's lap. "Please keep it?" He lifted his hands like paws in a begging posture and stuck out his tongue to pant.  
  
"Oh, fine, good Lord. Just quit that."  
  
"You love it."  
  
"I most certainly do not, and where you would get an idea like that--*oh*, nearly," he winced at the screen, and Ray dropped his pose at once to look, but he'd missed it.   
  
"Well, hell with it anyway if it was just a 'nearly'," he muttered, sitting up on part of the bedroll that Fraser wasn't using and turning to face the TV. Turnbull reached down and grabbed the back of his shirt, hauling him up toward the couch.   
  
"Woops. Seems I'm needed, Frase, see ya."  
  
"Far be it from me to keep you from responding to a summons of need," Fraser smiled, and leaned back against the couch again, crossing his legs at the ankles and picking up his lemon water. Ray got his legs under him and got up to the couch again, with Turnbull's assistance, before Turnbull could end up accidentally denuding him of his shirt.  
  
He snugged Ray up; Ray was lying sufficiently low on Turnbull that his head was under Turnbull's chin. Turnbull began to sniff and press his face around in Ray's hair. "Perhaps he could take styling tips from you," Turnbull murmured, his attention still half on the game--though, as Fraser had said, it was obvious by this time that the "game" was little more than a rout.   
  
"Baby, no offense, but if anybody needs the styling tips it's you," Ray said, tilting his head up suddenly and getting an unlooked-for wet kiss on the eye for his trouble. "Ow." He grinned. "I've been kissed in the eye. Is that a foul?"  
  
Fraser pretended to ponder. "Goodness, let's see...hockey game, participants attempting to kiss each other properly during play...I can't say I've ever seen that, Ray, so I've never seen whether one gets called on an improper kiss. How did you manage to miss so thoroughly, Turnbull?"  
  
"He moved. In order to insult my hair."  
  
"Kiss him in the eye again," Fraser suggested. "Perhaps it will teach him a lesson in manners."  
  
"Shut up," Ray said, kicking Fraser, with no force at all, in the shoulder. "I mean it, Turnbull, your hair's a nice color and stuff, you should do something decent with it. Near as I can tell, all you do is smear hair grease on it in any old direction. Sometimes it ends up pointing up in front and like that."  
  
"I'd actually thought it was too short to matter."  
  
"Ray is very sensitive to hair," Fraser told him. "Don't worry about it. He's likely the only one who notices."  
  
"No I'm not. You're a damn good-looking guy and way too big to miss, anyway. You should play up nice hair. I'm not sure what to call that color--kind of a dark sandy blond in some light, light brown in some light. With red. Real red, not orange. Ever thought of adding a few dark gold highlights? No orange. That'd look great on you. Subtle. You're not a flashy kind of guy, and you're damn near perfect the way you are...so grow it out about a half inch--is it straight? Wavy? Curly? That short I can't tell."  
  
"It's mostly straight. It's always been fairly short; there's only a very slight bend, and only if it gets as long as I've ever seen it."  
  
"So another half inch won't make it stand up like a toilet brush all on its own or anything. Yeah, I need to take you to my stylist. She could recommend just how long, and what kind of home hair color to use--I know I'd never get you to have it done professionally as often as short hair needs it--to get something close to your natural color, but a little shinier, like I said, the reddish as an undertone, with some highlights. Bring you out some. Make your freckles show a little; they're almost invisible. How about it?"  
  
Turnbull blinked. "Um...are you serious?"  
  
"Oh, Ray is always serious about hair," came the voice of authority.  
  
"Oh. Well...I suppose, since there's certainly no regulation against it...and another half inch wouldn't make it long enough to require binding, of course, though I'd still have to lotion it on duty--there's a level of professional appearance I find I can't allow myself to fall short of, though regulations aren't quite as strict as they used to be. The dress uniform is different, of course..." Turnbull dithered.  
  
"That's fine, that's handleable. She can show you ways to stay within regs and still look snazzy. You spend most of the day inside, with your hat off, unlike Mr. Perfect Hair down here; so you won't have to worry much about hat-head."  
  
"Uh...Fraser? What do you think?"  
  
"I think Ray is a very good person to consult on these matters. If you're at all interested in making a change, I'm sure his advice is valuable."  
  
And Ray would like it, Turnbull knew. "Hm. Well, okay, Ray. If you think--"  
  
"Cool!" Ray grinned and gave him a big mmm-ing kiss, with a soft wet smack as they separated. "I was sure you'd turn the idea down, you two and your living so simply that wild animals think you're pushing it some."  
  
"He's doing it partly to please you, you know," Fraser said, his voice warm, as he glanced up and around at them. "So appreciate him properly."  
  
This didn't seem to make Ray exactly ecstatic. He looked back up at Turnbull, upside down, wondering "Is it just for me?"  
  
"Oh, no--it's just as Fraser said. That sort of...change isn't something I'd thought of, but it seems innocuous, and it's certainly an interesting idea, having...*different* hair. New hair. I like the idea. But yes, I also know you like the idea, and your enthusiasm about it--" he smiled, big and sappy; he couldn't help it. "--makes me enthusiastic, too."  
  
"Cool, then, if you really do wanna." Ray wriggled a bit with pleasure, which made Turnbull wriggle with pleasure, which made the couch move and bump Fraser.   
  
"Hey."  
  
"Sorry, ss--Fraser."  
  
Fraser sighed.  
  
"Um, Turnbull..." Ray turned in his spot between Turnbull's legs, with both their left legs over the end of the thing and the right ones hanging off to frame Fraser. "There's something I wanted to tell you. Fraser would like it if you'd call him by his first name. He thinks it'd be, like, you know, warmer. Everyone calls him Fraser--well, Frasier, usually--and me, I'm so used to Frase by now..."  
  
"Ray's correct pronunciation of my last name has almost made it uniquely his own nickname--among natives of the States, that is," Fraser added.  
  
Ray continued "Would that be okay? Me, I think it makes sense, because it's easier to remember to call him something completely different than something so close, but no cigar, to what you call him at work."  
  
Ray's tone was light, but Turnbull felt a sinking sensation anyway. Fraser knew what Turnbull was doing. Fraser didn't like it. Fraser wanted him to cut some more distance...he pressed his lips together. "It's only fair. I've asked him to call me Turnbull rather than Renfield, and he does, so if he'd rather I called him Benton...I will."  
  
"You don't have to." Fraser had turned on the bedroll, and reached up to lay a hand on Turnbull's leg just above the knee. "Most importantly--far more so, to me--I want you to call me what you're comfortable with, Turnbull. If you'd rather use--"  
  
"I'll call you Benton if it's what you'd like. From me. I--can see Ray's point, too--I'm less likely to slip and call you sir or some such thing if you become 'Benton' to me after hours. It might even keep me from making mistakes at work. Yes, I'll call you Benton if--"  
  
"Actually--I wondered...there's another version of it..."  
  
"You'd prefer 'Ben'?"  
  
"Um...Benny." For Ray's benefit, he clarified "Our friend who's on vacation in Navajo country used to call me that, and I find I miss hearing it. It would be entirely different from hearing *him* say it, of course, but I like the...familiarity of it. I liked it from him, and I'd like it from you, very much."  
  
Turnbull stared. Ray stared. They both said "Benny?!"  
  
"Vecchio called you *Benny*?" Ray snorted. "Oh, *that's* cute."  
  
"I know that--our friend on vacation called you that," Turnbull said, joggling Ray to remind him they weren't supposed, even in private, to refer to the fact that Ray was not the real Vecchio, "but I didn't think you had any special fondness for it."  
  
"I didn't--don't--well, he was the only one who'd ever called me that in my life," Fraser said quietly, looking away and pinking up just a little; it was hard to see in the lamplight and the moving, bluish light from the TV. "Something so...you know. I had no experience with being called by a pet name, and I find I rather like it. No one is more surprised than I was, believe me," he assured them. "Ray's diminutive of my last name, and our mutual friend's of my first, were...are...well, I like it, but you don't have to do it if you don't think you'll be comfortable..."  
  
"Benny," Turnbull said softly. "I like that. How about if I work into it--Benton, and Benny occasionally. It's been such a long time of calling you nothing but careful honorifics..."  
  
"That's fine," Fraser said instantly. "Whatever you like, however--however you're comfortable." He looked like he wanted to add more, but was aware of the strangeness of how it sounded to be making such a big deal over this, on *any* of their parts; as though he was aware, Turnbull realized, that he might be playing up the real reason Turnbull didn't want to call him by his first name, and was trying to spare him that.  
  
"Ben," Turnbull said, and smiled.   
  
Fraser flinched.  
  
Ray said quickly "Um, maybe not that one. The uh. Victoria Metcalf? Are you familiar with...?"  
  
"Of course I am. There are official records on the incident--not that part of it, but if nothing else...in any case, she called you that, I take it? Benton, then. Terribly sorry for my, ahm...faux pas."  
  
"Thank you," Fraser said softly. "And it's all right. There'd be no way to tell, since I don't mind 'Ben' from anyone but you or Ray," he added, indicating which Ray by tilting his head toward the one currently on Turnbull. "And I didn't think I'd mind it from the two of you, either, but apparently...'Ben' is, after all, all right from anyone but..."  
  
"But a lover," Ray finished for him quietly, half-smiling warmly, reaching over to stroke his cheek.   
  
A lover.  
  
"Oh God," Turnbull said, and slithered out from under Ray and over the back of the couch like an eel and found himself in the bathroom with no memory of having gotten there.  
  
A lover. A lover.   
  
He was their *lover*.  
  
And neither of those two would ever use that word for someone you simply had an arrangement for sex and perhaps companionship, or an even lighter, more casual association with.  
  
"I can't be," he whimpered, curling up against the door, sitting with his knees pulled up and his face down on them, holding himself tight. "I can't be. I can't have done this, I can't, how could I have--it's wrong, it's just wrong..."  
  
"Turnbull? Baby, you don't have to open the door, but you've gotta say something and let us know you're okay," Ray said, and he sounded firm about it.  
  
Breathe. Breathe. Just say something and they'll leave you alone until...until you have to come out of here anyway, for mother's sake, you pathetic crumb.  
  
He took a trembling breath and said "Just a second." His head thumped back against the door and his eyes squinched closed. "Where are you?" he whispered, his voice strangled and almost inaudible.  
  
*Here*  
  
"What do I do? How can I--how can I stop this?"  
  
*you already know* *you can stop it if you will* *or let it go on until what you believe must happen happens* *it is your choice* *but you have come this far already* *so whatever you choose* *know this* *it IS too late to simply UNMAKE it* *you will have to actually leave them* *because now you are truly with them*  
  
"Oh, Mother, what have I done?" he whispered. "I was just lonely...so lonely...there was only you..."  
  
*you were utterly alone* *you wanted humans in your personal life* *there is nothing wrong in that* *humans need other humans* *humans are not singleton creatures* *I did not make you that way*  
  
"But now...they don't know what horrible...horrible things could happen, they don't know what I *am*, that I'm...deformed inside, that I can't..."  
  
*if it is any help* *nothing has really changed for the moment* *you simply never used the word before* *or heard them use it of you* *but on a level you knew what you were* *to them* *even if not to you*  
  
"But I hadn't *labeled* it. I could pretend to myself about it," he whispered into his lap, forehead on his knees, unable to see the tiny sparkles that trailed from his hand, up to drift over his head, to go out before they touched his collar. "I lied to myself about what was happening. And now they think they love *me*, and it's my fault for refusing to deal with the truth. I have to *go* now, I have to go right *now*, and I can't, not--I can't. I'm too weak. I can't leave. I love them so much. How can I do this? What can I do?"  
  
*Keep loving them*  
  
"I'd always do that. Even if I never saw them again. But they don't know what that means, that my love is something...different. That I got something else instead of what other people got. And there's no way for them to know, I can't...can't explain it, can't tell them why, or tell them that I'm in love with what *they* have together, none of it would make any *sense* to them. And the things that would happen if I stayed...how I'd start...the way I'd start to *get*..." he reflexively rubbed at the scar on his arm he'd told Ray was from a snowmobile accident. The accident had occurred, and the arm had been broken. But the scar in question was from something else.  
  
*Go home tonight and love them* *tomorrow you will be able to cope again* *that will give you more time to think about it*  
  
"You're right. I don't want to. I want to stay and sleep with them in the big bed, and love them, here, but I should leave them now, permanently, and never let...this come back between us. Going home tonight and...loving them there is the best compromise, if I can't do what's right. Thank you. I love you."  
  
*I know*  
  
He took a few deep breaths, then stood, turned, and opened the door, staring at the floor. As he'd known, they were both right outside, which was why he was staring down; he didn't want to look at them.   
  
"Ray," he said clearly, eyes still lowered, "I have to ask for space."  
  
There was a silence, and Ray whispered "Baby--"  
  
As Turnbull put both hands to his face and choked, holding his breath, he heard Fraser grab Ray somewhere and say "Ray, don't," in a low, cutting voice.   
  
There was a pause, and Ray said "Sorry. Right, I'm sorry, broke my own rule there. Come on. I'll...I'll drive you home. You...going to leave what you brought today?"  
  
Turnbull shook his head.  
  
"The, um...the other stuff?"  
  
Turnbull inventoried in his head; if anything should happen, there was nothing in the things he had stored here that couldn't be replaced--it was mostly toiletries and extra clothes, as yet. Even his uniform things could be replaced, except for the boots, which no one would question his taking with him tonight. A spare uniform was one thing, but you always took your boots. "I can leave that."  
  
"Good," Ray sighed. "Okay, then...just...pick up what you want, and we'll--"  
  
"I think I should drive Turnbull home, Ray," Fraser said.  
  
"Now wait a minute--"  
  
"Ray, please," Fraser said quietly, the edge gone from his voice, and Turnbull could imagine the look on his face, that understanding that passed so easily between them, Ray realizing that it was for Turnbull's sake Fraser asked. He wished he could watch. He wished he could watch them all the time, without them knowing, being uncomfortable and hating it, he wished he wasn't so repul--  
  
Shut up. You still have to get home.  
  
"Okay. Keys are in my jacket pocket. Turnbull, can I ha...do I get a hug?"  
  
Turnbull took a shaking breath. "I'm afraid not, right now. I'm sorry, it's nothing personal, Ray, it's not about you. None of this is about you. But I have to ask you something else, and I'm afraid it isn't negotiable."  
  
"Not--not. Not. All right, not. What is it?"  
  
"Never tell me you love me again, even if I slip and say it to you. Fraser--Benton--don't say it to me, either."  
  
Ray made some kind of noise that could have been the start of almost anything, but Fraser stopped it, exactly how Turnbull wasn't sure, because he was very carefully still not looking at them. If he looked at them, the universe alone knew what might happen.  
  
Finally: "Will you ever let me, or Frase?" Ray asked, very quietly.  
  
"Maybe." Not a flat-out lie; it was true that he might not. He just didn't mention that it was the only possibility. He couldn't stand to hear those words from Ray, or Fraser. It was just too wrong, it...made him almost physically sick, thinking about it now. It made what he'd done, what he'd wrongly and unfairly allowed to happen, too blatant, just as the word that sent him into the bathroom had. And anyway, it was...wrong for them to love him. Just wrong. So wrong, so horrible, that the thought of it was almost enough to scare him into leaving them permanently, right now, tonight...but not quite enough, because of how much he loved *them*.  
  
"Come on, then, Turnbull," Fraser said quietly, and, still without looking up, Turnbull followed Fraser into the front room, still sounding quietly normal with the sound of the game and the announcers on the TV, smelling like the last of the aromas from the dinner he'd calmly made while thinking of some of the snafus that had gone on that day with the e-mailing system at work.   
  
Before reality intruded into his deliberate haze of delusions.  
  
Gods, reality sucked.  
  
***  
  
Turnbull had sat in the back with Diefenbaker, who would not be deterred from accompanying them, though Turnbull tried to get him to stay--he didn't say "with Ray", but that was his reason. He should have known better than to try. Animals had always been like this with him. They often were, with witches. He'd known a witch woman with vicious allergies to animals, but who'd loved them and, since they'd loved her, she'd had to be protected by human shields whenever there were pets and such in her vicinity, since she'd never fend them off herself and ended up with skin wheals and nasal congestion and asthma attacks, suffering horribly for her inability to drive the animals away in the only ways possible, which were violent, because touching them at all would allow them to shed their dander on her.  
  
Turnbull was sympathizing with her.  
  
As the car stopped at Turnbull's building--Fraser was getting better with a clutch, or Ray would never have let him drive in the first place--Fraser said "Will you call tomorrow? You can speak with me. Ray will want to know you're all right." His voice was low, pleasant, proper. Mountie Fraser.  
  
"I'll call tomorrow, sir," Turnbull said, his demeanor the same. "Later in the morning, since Ray will doubtless want to sleep in. So will I, for that matter."  
  
"That will be fine. I'll talk with you tomorrow. Diefenbaker!" Dief had jumped out after Turnbull.  
  
"If it's all right with you, sir, it's fine if Dief stays."  
  
Fraser nodded. "You know his dietary restrictions, and other needs, of course. We'll just find someplace along the way for him to change hands, as it becomes convenient."  
  
"Right, sir. Good evening to you."  
  
"Good evening, Turnbull."  
  
Turnbull slammed the car door, and the GTO pulled away from the curb at once, but he noticed it didn't accelerate down the street until he'd unlocked and opened his building door. That was simply politeness, of course; one didn't drive off until one was sure the person one was dropping off hadn't lost their keys somewhere between the last use and this one.   
  
He and Dief went up the stairs, both of them quiet.  
  
"You didn't have to do this," Turnbull sighed as his own apartment door closed behind them.  
  
*Yes he did*  
  
"Why?"  
  
*You know why*  
  
"I need to love them."  
  
*That's not in question* *but he knows there is something he must prevent* * you cannot afford that release any more* *it may be discovered* *and you may be suspended* *pending--*  
  
"Evaluation! I know. It would become general knowledge, part of my records, and it's no one's business, and Gods alone know what would happen to my career. But it's been years since I had to..."  
  
*It's been years since there was anyone like this for you*  
  
"I know," Turnbull whispered, and his voice broke. Every time. Every time there was someone real...  
  
He clamped down on it. He knew he seemed to cry a lot, but it wasn't what he thought of as crying. It was a real release of tension, a real indication of emotion, and, being real, was one of the most convenient parts of his cover. It helped. It let him release a lot of things no one realized he was feeling in the first place; they just assumed the whats and whys, and he let them. But it wasn't genuine crying.   
  
When he genuinely cried, and he didn't have to be silent, and he didn't have to be secretive, he cried like a grown, two-hundred-pound man who'd been riven through by a poleax of despair. It was a frightening thing, a thing almost no one wanted anything to do with, and ugly, into the bargain. Humans in general had a low tolerance for "ugly" emotions not being kept under wraps, even if they weren't angry emotions, but sad ones. In fact, most humans would much less resent having to deal with anger than with deep, real, and powerful sadness. Sorrow was a shameful thing, in Western society.  
  
Even alone, he never, ever did it--not because of societal judgement, but because it simply hurt him too much. And, more to the point, it always seemed to be the last step, the thing that would make it all unworthwhile, the fall over the edge into absolute, naked pointlessness--dissolution in a lake of tears...  
  
The final breakthrough to actual reality, in other words.  
  
So, beyond sniffs, tears, controlling it--letting through bits and pieces of it, in a dozen different ways; he had to let the little bits through, get private and do what needed to be done to control it, or he'd never have been able to keep from the real, coldly deadly thing--beyond *that*, he never did it.   
  
When Fraser had died--he still thought of it that way, and always would--it had been close, and he very nearly had gone over, on seeing Fraser's body; but something had kicked in, frozen what needed to be frozen--he knew he might not survive this, he might have to dissolve in that lake, and he couldn't let it happen there, with all those people...never, ever, no matter what; so it had been the reflexive panicked screaming. He wasn't really in there. He'd actually felt more like Thatcher had shown herself to--dead, void, cold inside, outside, nothing moving, the complete cold of the cessation of atomic motion.  
  
It had to be that kind of absolute zero cold, because he knew what was coming later. The shrieking was just something to do to keep him busy, and socially acceptable for now, until he could get out of there--the gunman grabbing Francesca had barely registered; he'd hovered by Fraser's coffin, wondering in the tiny part of his mind that still moved if this was going to delay his escape from the scene; and the theatrics--no less theatrics for that the emotions they were conveying were quite real--had only let out enough of the horror that he could still keep together what he had to.  
  
In any event, as for now...  
  
"Dief--help--"  
  
Dief came at once, piling into Turnbull's lap, where he sat on the double bed that he slept diagonally on. Dief had Heathcliff, and dropped him by the pillow.  
  
"Thank you." Turnbull laid the toy gently on the pillow. "I want you to know I appreciate your not telling Fraser," he told the half-wolf seriously, and Dief lifted his head to look at him and listen. Turnbull repeated what he'd said, then continued "You are the...corporeal friend closest to me now, you know that?"  
  
Dief hrufed softly.  
  
"Good. I want you to understand how much you mean to me--I know your loyalties are pledged elsewhere, but you're still my friend. I don't know how this is going to turn out, but I have to be ready for all possibilities. I know you understand certain possibilities, that other humans might not."  
  
Dief hrufed, and whined.   
  
"Thank you; it's nice to know someone who knows me would. But as I said, I know you understand."   
  
He got up and began disrobing, putting the remaining things in his tote away.   
  
They could love his body.  
  
He dearly loved that. His body wasn't him, after all; it was one of the many things in the world that hated him, actually, but through it, he could also feel wonderful things, nevertheless. And...to feel them pressed against him, the heat, the touch of human skin, the incredible, shocking tenderness of caresses, something never ever felt before; not like this...being held, petted, kissed. Being allowed to hold, pet, kiss as well--it was a world of mute fantasy. And it didn't even matter if they called him beautiful; all he had to do then was say nothing, rather than either contradict them or lie. He couldn't say "So are you" or "you are too" because that was saying he agreed with them. But if he just said nothing--considering the high-running emotions of the circumstances they'd been in when they'd said it, neither of them had questioned that so far. Ray's discussion of his supposed physical charms this evening had been made bearable for him only in that the circumstances of it had been invoked by his ugly hair.   
  
So he could touch, was *allowed* touch, with them, such marvelous, wonderful touch. He thought of how he'd been able to hold Ray on the couch all evening, and think anything, any thoughts of love and worship that he wanted, while Ray and Fraser bantered. With touch, and thought--thought and feeling which he knew neither of them were of any bent to readily perceive--he could express the feelings he didn't dare articulate.   
  
It certainly wasn't that he *couldn't* articulate them. He knew the words he longed to say, knew them so well he found them creeping into his thoughts in totally unrelated situations, just appearing, in response to something unpleasant or upsetting--those words came like an amulet, an incantation of protection, no matter how inappropriate to the situation; they had become like magick to him, whether he liked it or not. And he thought them, if he wasn't careful even said some of them, softly, out of reflex, countering the hurt, whatever it was; usually some unpleasant thought from his own memory, triggered by whatever stimulus, internal or external.  
  
He couldn't ever say them, couldn't ever let Ray or Fraser hear them, *never*, but he could touch, and receive touch, and that was so good, so much better than anything he could possibly have expected to have in this life. He could say everything with his hands; they wouldn't know specifics of what he was saying; all they'd know was that he was making them feel good. He'd told them--he'd told them he would love them, always, and so he didn't need to say it any more; he didn't need to put himself in the danger of sliding into saying anything more than that, which was always present if he spoke.   
  
He must not speak.   
  
He must not let truth out, none of it, or he would never be able to see either man, face him, again.  
  
He knew that, because he had let truth out before. He knew what happened, all right. To him in particular, people who couldn't let truth out for his reasons in general, and to those everywhere who hated dealing in the lies the whole world did, every day, every single day. There was nothing worse than letting truth out, to anyone else.  
  
One hand slid down his upper thigh as he changed. A few white lines there, that were becoming more visible. Even without sun, skin darkened as people got older, though he did protect his skin carefully from sun. Fortunately, scars faded, too; but only to a point. The comp pants...he'd told the truth when he said he needed to remain used to the feel of comp gear. And he'd had a point when he'd implied to Ray that wearing anything else made it rather difficult to keep his somewhat overgenerous endowments under control and decently unseen. He just hadn't mentioned the scars, that was all. The ones on his upper body, he found, went largely unnoticed if he simply pretended they didn't exist; they weren't marked enough to be obvious since they had turned white, and the worst ones--especially the nastiest--he had an explanation for. There *was* a scar from that snowmobile accident near it. So he just mentioned the accident, and let people draw their own conclusions. He wasn't sure how he'd explain the lighter tracings of scars on his thighs, belly, buttocks, arms, chest...sometimes he found them, unmistakable, all unexpecting, on parts of his body he was unaware had ever been cut, but that wasn't surprising. He had little memory of making any of the cuts at all, but a few standouts. He'd simply grimace and continue with what he was doing.   
  
Fortunately they were, against his skin, fairly faint. All he'd needed was the blood. Just letting out the blood was enough to let his insides unknot, the horror back away, his hatred of himself be eased for a while. Here, universe, is this what you want? Blood. Is that all you'll take, to forgive me for existing? Or am I so foul I actually have to die?   
  
No, the blood calmed it, calmed him, let everything go back to normal. Blood was a good thing. It took care of you, from the inside. It carried your whole body its food and oxygen, and transported all the many and various sorts of engines of repair that kept every tiniest cell in your body functioning properly. It brought in the good or the currently needed, and took away the bad, or the currently excess, to be disposed of by the renal system. It wasn't gross, or frightening, or horrible.   
  
It was gentle. It took care. It comforted. When nothing else would, when no one else in the world would--it did.  
  
Only some of the scars on his arms had been deep enough to go all the way through the skin, and he'd taken care of those wounds himself. He knew now that it was a miracle that wounds that deep, unstitched--though he had given them very meticulous daily care, with an especial focus on avoiding infection--*had* gone uninfected, and healed as well as they had with no professional attention.   
  
But it didn't matter now. It had been years. Whatever the blood releasing had done for him, it didn't do any more; it stopped helping so much, so he stopped doing it. That was all. That aspect of his life was over...  
  
...but it was true that it had been years since he had loved a real person, and there were urges forming in him, horrible squirming feelings, and needs to quiet them--they must be quieted somehow; let run, there was no telling what they might do. He wasn't sure how he would manage it, now that it was possible marks left would be recognized at the physicals that couldn't be avoided in his work. Plus, the older he got...youth healed quickly. Later injuries lingered.  
  
He'd come up with various excuses when they'd been remarked on before. Skateboarding as a youth, he'd left a smear of himself down a gravel hillside. Car accidents which had actually occurred, but hadn't produced the scars in question. Other such. Whatever. People saw what they expected to see, believed what they wanted to be true, and what they wanted to believe was that everything was within the parameters of "fine" and "normal" and required no actual thought or effort on their part. He used that indisputable fact in most aspects of his life, not just about the scars.  
  
And it had always worked in his favor. It worked for this. Ray and Fraser had seen the scars up close, and not mentioned them at all--possibly because they were very distracted part of the time; but sometimes they weren't, and they still didn't see anything to remark on, thank all Gods there were. They simply assumed accidents and such. It wasn't as though the marks were that obvious. Hell, maybe they hadn't even really *seen* most of them at all, in the low light...  
  
That was worrisome. What if the only reason they hadn't said anything was that they'd not seen? What if they asked?   
  
Calm. What do you always do? Tell a non-lie, that's all. The greater portion of who he was--especially the aspect of him that incorporated whatever it was he got instead of the ability to love normally--was hidden from them and would remain so. It was too uniquely strange for them to be able to guess at, or even deduct any details accurately; so it wouldn't be difficult to divert them.   
  
He was safe. He was safe. He was still safe. He'd gotten out of there tonight, that was a good sign, that he knew when to back off, and would do it--even if it made a scene that was the lesser of two evils. And even though he couldn't simply leave them as a--a companion of the sort he was--at least, not yet. He'd have to eventually, but he *couldn't, yet, not while they were still willing to put up with him.  
  
Eventually, they wouldn't be.  
  
Ideally, they would be the ones to...do that. Stop being willing. But he'd have thought that would have happened already, any of half a dozen times, for as many reasons, and it hadn't. He'd never been this good about keeping everything behind the wall, though. That might be why.  
  
He crawled onto the bed with his athame in his hands and curled into a ball around it. He thought he felt it shiver against him.  
  
*Not Heathcliff*  
  
"He's here. Right there. By the pillow."  
  
*Do you still wonder about your knife*  
  
"No, not any more. I know all about how an athame must never be used to seriously cut flesh or draw blood, but I am *different*. My athame didn't cut me, I did. And I used my athame because it's friendly, not some anonymous razor blade or something. It *helped* me, it wasn't an attack."  
  
*it is your work knife* *you know best*  
  
"I'm alone in this as in everything else, and if I'm a hedge-witch, I can make my own rules. No solitary has to go by the preferences of a group. We're each our own tradition. Every other witch in the world may think my knife isn't properly useful for magic work any more, but harm wasn't done with it, help was, and I *know* that. What if I'd used it to dig out a splinter? Or perform any other kind of medical function? I don't know what kind of horrible thing might have happened if I hadn't been able to...to draw the blood, all those times. If I hadn't been able to ease the strain that way. It saved me."  
  
*You'll love them now*  
  
"Yes. Yes, I...Dief, I'm sorry. Turn the other way, and you won't be able to hear me. If anything...if I did anything to draw blood, you'd be able to smell it, so don't worry about that."  
  
Dief whined softly, licked his cheek, and got off the bed, moving to a rug in the corner, where he lay down, his back to Turnbull.  
  
Turnbull's athame was a long, swordlike knife; not strictly a dagger, since it had edge all the way up the blade until an inch or so from where it met the hilt. He liked it because it resembled a small sword, and was larger than most daggers. It had a scrollworked metal sheath that had rubber stops inside, holding it securely, allowing it to slip in and out soundlessly. That made it easy to take to bed with him when Heathcliff alone couldn't handle what was going to happen.  
  
And most daggers didn't have edge, being stabbing weapons. It was pretty much impossible to do anything with a dagger but direct energy or kill someone.   
  
He had a dagger that he'd used for years, as it was black-handled; however, the use of a black-handled knife in spellworking was from sources which involved the summoning of spirits which one was supposed to intimidate by the use of this black-handled knife; Gardner (who, although he might have been responsible for modern witchcraft's resurgence, was not responsible for most of the resurrection of a spirituality that catered to natural human needs and feelings behind the very oldest religions, including the aboriginal northern European ones) was a pure nutcase when it came to attention-grabbing, and he was fond of knives in general, often carrying big, intimidating-looking ones to meetings with reporters. Finding a reference in demon-controlling that involved the sorcerer having a white-handled and a black-handled knife, the latter for intimidating the summoned spirits, he'd filched the notion of the two knives and their handle colors for his sect of witchcraft, 'Wica'; that the general work knife have a black handle--or, for that matter, exist at all as part of one's regular tools--was Gardner's idea, and not a revived custom of any older aboriginal tradition. The use of a sword in magic working in northern Europe could be documented; however, only among the nobility, who were permitted to own them.  
  
So his knife, resembling a sword, was as legitimate as anyone else's; if the tool felt right, it felt right. This one did.   
  
And it knew him better than most humans did.   
  
It was only a mass-produced thing; his own was modified such that it could never be used in actual combat--the blade had had to be made very thin in order to take that edge all the way up, which was the reason daggers didn't have one, far past the point--and so the blade would break if it were struck just right or lodged in anything for too long, or too violently; but who the heck ever saw combat with an athame? You'd need a new athame, for starters, assuming you made it out alive. The knife was a symbol, a tool, corresponding with swords and the element of air, in his tradition; not a weapon, nor even a tool of command. Air was represented by things which moved through it--swords, good ones, being one such thing. Some even sang when moved quickly enough.   
  
But none of that was why Turnbull was going to bed with his athame.  
  
There was something about the cold metal, right near his solar plexus, folded close, that reassured. Sometimes, if the crying and muscle spasming took his attention for a while, he would find he held the knife flat to him, by the hilt, the point just at his breadbasket, pressing. It was often the poink that got his attention. It was trying to help, again. It was not aimed at his heart--that wasn't where the pain was. When he felt like this, when he had to *do* this, do it *hard*, and get it done, it could get truly, pathetically ugly, and the pain was often physical; sometimes it crawled out of his breadbasket, the place inside below the heart that felt hollow, and down his arms, into his hands. His hands became weak, then, and he could only press them against himself, curl up around them.   
  
But the knife--or he himself, whatever--wasn't trying to attack *him*, not trying to hurt *him*--it was the pain he and the knife were after. To get in there, get *at* it. *Relieve* it, relieve that awful, soul-tearing pressure. Ease it. Let him *breathe* again.   
  
It wasn't trying to kill him, and he wasn't in the least interested in killing himself. He wanted to stay *alive*. That was the why of *all* of it. Not that anyone would ever believe it.  
  
Especially not Fraser and Ray. And that was only one of the things they'd be alarmed and repelled by.  
  
Another was what was happening now. It had started quietly; it always did, with him imagining their presence--their unaware presence. He couldn't, even in his own imagination, take the thought of their being aware of him while this was happening, while he was saying these things, these pathetic, worshipful, poetic--some very good, some nauseatingly bad--things. All of it was sincere, though. All of it was real.   
  
He imagined touching them in all the ways he wanted to, ways too close to worship to do even when they made love--God, don't think that--and said the things he could never say, all of them. Then kissing his loves and saying them again, more of them, more emphatically, until he was nearly out of his mind to be part of them, one with them, the decent parts of him joined insolubly with them and the rest of him--most of him--the dross destroyed, not to have to suffer, and to contaminate everything it touched, any more. No more...  
  
And when his energy was finally gone, and his throat hurt deep down towards his chest too much to continue--because he couldn't genuinely cry, even now, not even now--and the sheets were a filthy wreck, and he was cleaner inside--not clean, but cleaner for a while, again, finally--he let himself sob a few times, just to tell himself that it was finished, not to allow himself to wind up into that spiral again--that he'd had all he could have for now--he got up and stumbled over to the altar and lit the candle.  
  
"Thanks for letting me have them."  
  
*thank yourself* *it's you they love* *and you who chose*  
  
"Do you? Love me."  
  
*Always*  
  
"Understand me?"  
  
*How can I not*   
  
"You saved my life, you know. If I hadn't found the craft, I would never have gotten to the point of being able to function. To get through the day like a normal person. Like an RCMP constable. I'd never...have gotten perspective. I'd have...lost myself. But you were here, and you were already me--no dogma, nobody telling me the way it all works...just everything I had always known. It *was* real, I found proof it was real. That the way I saw the world was real, viable, that other people saw it, too. I'd have no self-respect at all, but for you. No talk therapy, no drugs, no doctors ever gave to me what you did. A self--my *own* self, the one I already *had*."  
  
*Yes* *you had it* *you just couldn't see it*   
  
"I can now. There's still...I'm still broken, and I'll never be completely real. But what there is of me, I've found, and I'll never forget...how I opened my eyes and there *was* a world--little and hemmed in on all sides, but real, out there, that I could live in. I...was allowed to exist, with you. No one else allowed *me* to exist. Only you."  
  
*Remember, if that which you seek, you find not within yourself*  
  
"...then I will never find it without. You have been with me from the beginning. And you are that which is attained at the end of desire. I have a right to exist just as I am, a right to exist, just like the trees, and the stars...and no one can take it, now. They tried. But they failed. You saved me."  
  
*You saved you*  
  
"I love you."  
  
*I know* *Rest now*  
  
Turnbull blew out the candle--he didn't believe all that superstitious rubbish about never blowing out candles, always using a snuffer, either--got up, and staggered a bit on his way back to the trashed bed. Dief was there, ready to join him.  
  
"Thank you, Dief." It was all he could manage, as he curled up with his knife and Heathcliff, and Dief against his back, whining softly and licking his ear lightly every now and then.  
  
"I am now, or..." tears pushed out, and he had to reach for a much-abused cotton handkerchief and blow his nose into it. "...after I sleep. After I sleep, I'm always all right, after this. You know where your water bowl is, and I left the window to the fire escape open."  
  
Dief wasn't worried about that. He just wanted to be sure Turnbull was all right. What little he had been able to hear had sounded so sad, so sad.  
  
"Yes. But it's done with for now. I'll...have to find some ways not to let them get to me so much, so that I don't end up...bad off again. Like last time...last time I loved someone real. Thank you for caring, though. At least you're not human, so I know you really do."  
  
Dief rested his head behind Turnbull's and sighed. Turnbull squeezed Heathcliff close, not seeing the sparks dancing around the toy, and moving to surround the knife briefly before they went out.  
  
***  
  
As the door closed behind Fraser, there was silence in the apartment; the TV was off, the lights were off, everything was off. Fraser didn't need to extend his senses at all to know that Ray would be on the sofa, curled where he and Turnbull had been sitting less than a half hour ago.  
  
He was there. Fraser sat next to him, not trying to touch him.  
  
Ray finally said "You know shit you ain't tellin' me, and that is *not* buddies, Fraser, and that will *never* work for three of us, you know that, we *have* to tell each other, everything that affects all of us, all of us have to. Or we can give up now."  
  
"I know you won't believe this right away, but it's not true that I know things I'm not telling you. I'm...going with my gut, I suppose, where this...this aspect of Turnbull is concerned. Sometimes, what's needed *isn't* to fight your way into a person's face and insist. That sounds...odd coming from me, I know, but...I'm trying to put myself in Turnbull's place, rather than...operating on my usual instincts. When you force someone...all you get for that..."  
  
"...is dumped on your ass and walked away from. You keep after 'em, they cut you out of their lives for good. I know--that's what happens in the *real* world, when you do that to somebody. I'm enough of a grownup to know that, Fraser, but you've gotta tell me your hunches. You've gotta. I'm dyin' here, Fraser, please. He told me--he told me not to say I love him. Told us both." Ray's reaction was understandable, but Fraser knew that more than the usual distress fueled it in his case. Ray was familiar, first-hand, with the stages of request for permanent breakup. This sounded an awful lot like one such step--and an advanced one, at that.  
  
"Many people have difficulty hearing those words, for a lot of different reasons. You know about some of them. For example--perhaps the phrase has come to be associated with something horrible, as with molestation survivors whose molesters always said that to them during the act of violating them. No--that's just an example, calm down; I strongly doubt that's the case here. Like I said, there are *many* reasons--"  
  
"But he let me before! He let us say it before! Why--why would he--just *why*, unless--"  
  
"He was shocked this evening, Ray. I believe that nothing has really changed. It's as he said; he simply needs space tonight. I think we may have moved too quickly for him--that he found *himself* moving too quickly; perhaps he asked too much of himself, too soon. He likely only wants to slow down a little, and tomorrow, except for our complying with his request--and his complying with mine, incidentally--nothing else will be different. *We* need to remember how things are with him, for his sake, just as much as *he* needs to keep certain of his own limitations in mind, whatever they may be, in order not to lead us into any areas where he finds he can't...deliver on his promises, for *our* sake. He may have stumbled on that here, that's all. Everyone should remember those things, in *any* relationship; he's trying to."  
  
"But..." Ray had heard him, but Ray had a need to...express, that Fraser, for all he didn't indulge such needs in himself often, understood, and he let Ray talk. "...I can't say I love him. Not even if he says it to me, not even when we make love. I...oh, Jesus, Fraser, I don't know when it happened, exactly, but I fell hard for him, in here somewhere. I was an asshole, and then we were friends, and then better friends, and then we had this, and then I...I feel like this. I need him like I need you. Which is a fucking hell of a lot, in case you were wondering."  
  
"I wasn't." Fraser smiled. "I need you, too. You give me things I would be very..." he paused, and his voice dropped, and he went on, knowing that if there was ever a time to own up, this was it, "...that I'd be destitute without, though I never knew it until you. You...shore me up, you give me a--a sort of caring beyond your love. I don't always even like it at the time, but I always come to respect it to some degree. You teach me. I'm becoming a better me, with you, I have been for a while now; and that, to put it mildly, is not an easy thing to make happen with me, since I could be better at..."  
  
"Listening." Ray muttered, but with a sharp undertone; Fraser could just discern a faint smile on Ray's face in the light from the windows.   
  
"My friend, the one on vacation, he loved me--dear Lord, he must have, to do what he did for me, sometimes--and believe it or not, I used to be...well...think of Turnbull, but without as much of his eagerness to please, far more self-assurance--some might say a bit too much--and certainly no more worldly, not about anything that really mattered."  
  
"Geez God. You needed to be, I dunno, slapped."  
  
"Well, my friend tried--speaking figuratively, of course--or so I believe...but I tend to be...how did you put it? Self-contained. He does, too, he's...rather steeped in his culture, and men are emotionally self-contained there, except for the negative emotions, which men are always permitted to express, *almost* no matter what the culture. So there were limits with us; but there are fewer with you and me. Besides the obvious, I mean. You have the power to...reach me, to penetrate some of that obliviousness, and, once reached...you can convince me to reach back. And I don't ever want to lose that. Or you."  
  
"Fraser..." Ray's voice was a broken whisper; he finally let himself be pulled close. "That was a beautiful paragraph," he said, managing a chuckle.  
  
"Thanks."   
  
They rolled together in as tight a ball as two people their size, in jeans, could do; Ray said "Just so you know--I know that, what you just said. You said it in the bathroom weeks ago. Not quite as well, but I heard it. Just so you know."  
  
"That's one of the things you're teaching me about," Fraser smiled a little. "How you can hear such things so clearly out of that jumbled mess I said to you in the bathroom. One of the things I love you for."  
  
"It's nice to be able to say that to me, isn't it." Ray's head fell to Fraser's arm.  
  
Fraser blinked, but answered honestly "Yes, it's...wonderful. But Ray...I think I see where you're going, here. Having the right to say that to you whenever I like--it's a privilege you give me, and I think of it as one, believe me. It's an honor, a favor carried into the lists for everyone to see--even if no one sees it but us--I see it; that's enough. But no matter what, to tell you I love you, whenever I feel the urge, isn't a right I have, however I may feel about you; getting that personal with you is something you have to allow me. I can't just *take* it. The best I'd have a *right* to do would be let you know how I feel, in some non-invasive way, and then see what you had to say about it, what sort of things you felt comfortable with from me."  
  
"But--Turnbull--he *needs* to *hear* it. Maybe--maybe it makes him squirm for some reason, but--"  
  
"No, no--he needs to *know* it. That's why we have to respect his wishes. Saying it to him won't necessarily accomplish his knowing that, anyway. But, even if it did, if *hearing* it hurts him, then he shouldn't have to. He should be able to feel safe with people who really love him, and if that hurts him, he should be safe from it with us, whether we understand it--"  
  
"--whether we understand it or not, I got that, I hear it from you all the time about him lately." Ray sighed. "I don't want to hurt him. I just want to *love* him." Fraser squeezed him, biting his own lip; Ray had given his heart, without even knowing it--he'd suddenly discovered he had one with Turnbull's name on it, and that Turnbull had it now, and the discovery, happening this particular way, had taken him to a very bad place that he'd thought he'd finally left behind. Fraser wanted to cry with sympathy, though he was feeling much the same things himself. But Ray was in a worse way, now; when Fraser needed it, Ray would be strong.  
  
Ray was moaning softly "Why can't he just let me? Why can't he just *let* us? We'd never hurt him...he has to know that..."  
  
Fraser only shook his head slowly, obviously in indication of having no answer. "But you're the one who surmised first that he's been hurt, and badly. Give it time, Ray. I know you've been hearing that from me a lot, and I know how much you hate waiting, but if you love him, you'll wait, unless it's just too much for you to take--in which case, you always have the option of not waiting, of telling him you don't think you can handle what he's asking for, and ending, or changing, the relationship."   
  
"Oh, right. And where would that leave you?"  
  
"In an awkward position, certainly," Fraser sighed, leaning back on the couch, his arms still loosely around Ray. "I'd have to find out how you both felt about my continuing feelings toward both of you; what either of you needed or wanted--whether you could take my being that close to both of you if you weren't that close to each other. What to do if either of you couldn't, what to do if you could take some things, but not others--it's just something all of us would have to work out together. Such relationships do exist, and they're more common than most suspect."  
  
"Yeah, Fraser, I know that. And relationships like you, me and him all together are even more common than that. But...I'm not saying I can't wait, or I won't wait, I'm just..."  
  
"Worried. Upset. I am, too."  
  
Ray sighed. "I know, and thanks for being the voice of rationality. Letting me be the crybaby. You know...sometimes...as much as I've always thought you were hot and everything, and the way some of the stuff you do turns me on, has from day one, even as often as I want to kill you..."  
  
"All right, I think I'm going to have to ask for details on that later." Fraser smiled. "Especially the when you get hot, and when you want to kill me, parts."  
  
Ray smiled wanly back. "Yeah. Um, for all that...I think maybe the reason you and I never got together without him is it was just easier, when you added him. We don't work as easy without him. Yeah, we all love each other, and you and me, we're us, even without him, like any of us together would be. But we work better, it's simplest, easiest, with all of us. He got added, and we...just boom, you know? Though I bet it would have happened eventually without him."  
  
"That could--all of it, I mean--easily be true. But it's irrelevant if all of us don't share that opinion."  
  
"Fraser, he does share it. I know it."  
  
"I try never to undervalue your hunches these days, Ray, particularly in areas where you have, admittedly, far more experience, and natural talent--natural...better...instincts, all right, than I do. I do have them, you know."  
  
"I know. You got lots of 'em. You got instincts about stuff like when to duck, for example." Ray smiled; Fraser could see his teeth gleam in the dimness. "And haul me with you, which is much appreciated, by the way."  
  
"You're most welcome."  
  
"Dief stayed with Turnbull."  
  
"Yes, he insisted, and I'm rather glad, frankly, though of course I had to let Turnbull know he had the option of not hosting my half-wolf. But Turnbull was good enough to have him in."  
  
"I'm glad too. Real glad. Dief will look out for him."  
  
"Yes. He will."  
  
"Fraser, you think...has anybody ever loved Turnbull? Ever really loved him? Looked past his weird shit and loved him, seen that the weird shit is just not that important next to what kind of guy he *is*? Even the office fuckup is never nothing but the office fuckup."  
  
Fraser was quiet a long time. This gentle, insightful version of Ray, resting in his arms right now, didn't come out often; but when he did, he had the power to make Fraser think like no one else did--except, he reflected wryly, possibly Turnbull. Had anybody ever really loved Fraser, either, he wondered? The way Ray was describing it? Not his father, no. Not his grandparents. Perhaps his mother, but he had been so young--there hadn't been much to look past, as yet, or much to see when one got there, in a child that small, though certainly there was enough to make the difference in trying or not. Ray Vecchio? Yes, Ray loved him. Not always, but sometimes...Ray had *seen* him. "I don't know, but if you feel compelled to ask that question, I would say that chances that he has been...both truly *seen*, and...truly accepted...for who he is, are low."  
  
"I want to do that. I *do* do that. I want him to *let* us do that, give us the chance to do that--" Ray sighed, with a resigned sound.  
  
"If--and I do say if--that's never happened before, that someone he loves and respects has loved and respected him as well, then he'd have no idea at all what to do, how to feel, or how to act in such a situation. Respect--I've had it both ways. Enormous amounts, and absolutely none. I've had people respect certain things about me very much, while ignoring or actively not respecting other things. But there has always been someone to have some sort of confidence in me, I know that. Some kind of belief, some...good kind. It isn't enough, by itself, no. But it is necessary. I think...Turnbull..."  
  
"Yeah, he may have spent a real long time not getting that."  
  
"I think he's been...Ray, I'm no judge of people, not like you, but I've known...my share of people who...well. I shouldn't discuss their private business. But I also know what happens when someone is...blamed, actively not respected, for things that are in no way his fault or doing, and I think that may...I think that may be a factor here, and that it has made an impression on him that will never be removed, because...I don't know. It does something to you, I think..."  
  
"I know it does. The way he talks about his dad...you notice he never mentions his mom?"  
  
"He also has two sisters, I believe, both older than he is."  
  
"He never talks about them, either."  
  
"Well, that's not much to base an opinion about them on, Ray. You're reticent about your own family. I talk about mine only if it's relevant to the subject at hand. Plenty of people grow away from their families. We simply don't have enough information to speculate."  
  
"I know. But I can't help it. Ah, hell, Frase, I wanted him here right now, I really wanted him here right now, and he left..." Ray slumped against Fraser, hiding his face in the jacket-clad shoulder. "I'm sorry. I'm selfish, I'm a damn baby, here..."  
  
"You're disappointed and sad and worried. It's all right. I feel the same things, I just...don't say them out loud. At least when you say them out loud, you're letting go of some small part of them...if someone will genuinely listen to you."  
  
"Then thank you for listening."  
  
"You're welcome, but...oh, Ray, that's the least of why I'm here." He held Ray close. "That's just...you can always expect that."  
  
"I don't feel so good," Ray mumbled. "That bed's gonna be awfully big without him."  
  
"Yes, but...the sooner we get started getting used to it--you've already slept in it without either of us--"  
  
"But that wasn't because of something like this. That was just, hey, you gotta go *home* sometimes, that's all."  
  
"I know. But we'll be more comfortable there. It is your bed, Ray. You did intend to buy another; it just wouldn't have been quite as large, that's all. Objectively speaking--though I admit, within the inelastic confines of a smallish bedroom, it may seem otherwise--kings aren't that much bigger than queen sizes."  
  
"I know." He sighed. "I'm just nattering. Enough nattering." He stood, pulling Fraser with him. "Help me, I can't see in the dark."  
  
"I'm not all that great at it either; I usually have Dief. He's quite good with night vision and he's an easy color for me to follow, ouch."  
  
"There's a doorframe there."  
  
"Yeah." They made it into the bedroom and Ray felt his way to one of the lamps, said "Cover your eyes" and switched it on. They opened cautiously, winced and blinked, then began making ready for bed.  
  
Once ensconced, Ray left one of the bedside lamps on. "We gonna hear from him tomorrow?"  
  
"Yes. I told him I'd answer; he said he'd call late in the morning."  
  
"Okay. I wish...he'd left...his...just more."  
  
"Yes, he didn't take all this things, but he didn't leave anything he can't replace. Not even the uniform he keeps here can't be replaced if he has to do so."  
  
"I want to go to his place."  
  
"I know."   
  
"I want him to tell me about his family."  
  
"I know."  
  
"I want in. Fraser, I want in."  
  
"I know." Fraser squeezed and rocked him, shushing him gently. "We both want in."  
  
"Dief's in."  
  
"Yes, I think he is, but Turnbull has always had an affinity with nonhumans."  
  
"Yeah. Animals like him. So do babies."  
  
"They do--nonhuman animals and babies, that is--have a tendency to see past things the rest of us can't. Things we think of as important, they don't even see, much less have any sort of regard for, good or bad."  
  
"They go straight for the inside of you, the real person. He has a good real person."  
  
"You wouldn't love him if he didn't."  
  
"Neither would you."  
  
"True. Ray, maybe you should try to sleep. He'll call in the morning. I'll talk with him. I hate to make predictions, but in this case...I'm almost sure he'll come over again. He just needed tonight, that's all. It'll be all right. You'll see."  
  
"I know, but...before...I could pretend that...things were...different. Now I know. He's..."  
  
"He's set a few boundaries, that's all. I know...we can't pretend now that he's...being entirely...that there isn't...."  
  
"Something big we don't know anything about. Like who he is, most of him. I don't know how I can love anybody under those circumstances, but I can. I do."  
  
"Ray...we love what we know, and what we surmise. But he's right in that we can only suppose we'd love the rest. And *he's* quite sure we wouldn't. I don't know what it is, specifically, that makes him think so--but whoever and whatever he is, I do know he loves *us*. Even the parts we can't know love us, though I can't tell you why I'd think so. I just..."  
  
"Oh hell yeah. Loves us completely. That's never been the issue." Ray sighed. "Time. I'll give him time. I just...need to get used to not being able to say it to him. I'll find other ways."  
  
"There are many."  
  
"Yeah." Ray sighed.  
  
Fraser let his hand stroke gently down Ray's belly. "Would some attention here help you sleep? If you think you should decline because you don't want to think of Turnbull being alone while we're...having pleasure together, think about what he'd say. Do you think he'd want us not to? He does enjoy our loving..."  
  
"I don't know. I really don't know. The circumstances...hell. C'mere, Frase." Ray pulled Fraser close, reached down, gently stroked the firming soft-skinned organ there. "I might...I miss him. I might..."  
  
"You'll think of him," Frase said gently, and kissed him. "I know. I will, too."  
  
"As long as that's okay."  
  
"Of course."  
  
"I wish he was here."  
  
"Oh, Ray...me too."  
  
"I'm sorry I'm such a fucking baby."  
  
"Don't be sorry for feeling bad. You showed me the idiocy of that, guilt for having *bad* feelings. This isn't any kind of self-indulgence. Anyone would be worried and upset. One, someone you love had, and is having, an emotional crisis; and two, they *left* to deal with it, instead of wanting any kind of help from you. Or me." He sighed with feeling Ray's hand, reached back to touch Ray, but Ray shook his head, taking the hand Fraser used and squeezing it, moving it away. "Let me."  
  
"Mm. If you want...?"  
  
"Yeah." Soft kisses on his face, his eyelids. "Love to watch you. Just relax."  
  
Fraser did, feeling himself harden slowly in Ray's slow-moving hand. He didn't feel any need to hurry things along. Ray held him with his other arm, cradled with his body. Ray's comfort, easier for him to give than words, and so sweet to Fraser, this luxury of touch, gentleness, as he felt his hips begin to move in a slow, easy rhythm.   
  
"That's it...easy...just feel it..."  
  
He reached up with both hands, laid them on Ray's skin, his neck and shoulder, and his waist, feeling the smoothness, the warmth, the heartbeat. He opened his eyes and saw Ray's glimmering in the low light, just the glimmering, the reflection that said Ray was watching him; he reached up and felt the relaxed planes of his face, a soft kiss in his palm. Ray moved over him, kissing his mouth, clinging sweetness. "Shh, honey...just feel it..." the movement of his hand speeded and he squeezed more tightly; Fraser moaned and felt himself go lax, everywhere but the muscles that worked his body back into Ray's hand, let it go, let it take him.   
  
When Ray had wiped him up carefully, Fraser turned him on his back, sliding a hand down his belly, and found Ray only half-hard. He made a sound of puzzled inquiry, and Ray said "I don't think I'm up for it tonight, honey...you ever wonder why I call you that?"  
  
"Mm?" Fraser made a soft interrogatory sound.  
  
"Your voice, your skin. It's like milk, hot but not too hot, with honey stirred in--enough to make it...rich, and sweet, but not syrupy. Warm honey." Ray kissed back, with real feeling, when Fraser gave his opinion of Ray's nickname via his lips to Ray's.   
  
Fraser found he was still stroking Ray's half-soft package, holding his penis and squeezing very gently, stroking without urgency. Ray sighed. "That feels good."  
  
Fraser started to scoot down in the bed; Ray made to stop him, but Fraser kissed his breastbone and said "I know, it's all right." When he got low enough, he bent and kissed Ray's penis gently, as though he were kissing his mouth; then he held it softly and rested his head on Ray's stomach.   
  
"Frase..."  
  
"Mm?"  
  
"Sing me something? Something quiet. Peaceful."  
  
Fraser kissed Ray's stomach. "All right." He moved his head up a little on Ray's torso, and said "This isn't very long, but I think it's...apt. I'll sing...the version I like best."  
  
"That sounds good. Is it a lullaby?"  
  
"Yes. Of...of a kind. The version I like is a lullaby." Fraser swallowed a time or two, then inhaled and began. "'Sleep, my love, and peace attend thee, all through the night; guardian angels God will lend thee, all through the night. Soft, the drowsy hours are creeping, hill and vale in slumber steeping--love its quiet vigil keeping, all through the night'."  
  
He gathered Ray a little closer and continued. "'Angels watching ever 'round thee, all through the night; in thy slumbers close surround thee, all through the night; they shall of all fears disarm thee--no forebodings shall alarm thee; they will let no peril harm thee, all through the night. While the moon her watch is keeping, all through the night--while the weary world is sleeping, all through the night--o'er thy spirit gently stealing, visions of delight, revealing, breathe a pure and holy feeling; all through the night'."  
  
Ray's arms folded loosely around Fraser's shoulders, and he sighed a sigh Fraser recognized, falling, falling.  
  
Fraser sang on.   
  
"'Love, to thee my thoughts are turning, all through the night; for thy sake my heart is yearning, all through the night. Though harsh fate our touch may sever, parting will not last forever; truly parted we'll be never, all through the night..."  
  
"I really love you," Ray whispered.  
  
"I love you, Ray. Sleep now."  
  
"Mm..." Ray sighed, and said "Hum?"  
  
Fraser began to hum the tune very softly, in a deep register; Ray slowly went boneless.  
  
Sparkles flitted under the bed. A couple of miles away, Turnbull clutched his knife closer, and smiled. Somebody was doing a protection spell. He was included in it. Being asleep and dreaming, it didn't make him scoff at the idea. It just made him feel like he had a friend--in a deep, real way, that he never felt when he was awake. He was wrapped up with a friend watching over him, close and content.   
  
Dief watched the sparkles that traveled under the door wink out quietly, then closed his eyes again.  
  
***  
  
"It's...wow, that's different," Ray said, holding the sculpture, or whatever you'd call it, in both hands, with the round base perched on his knees. "It's...an angel?"  
  
"If you like," Turnbull said softly. "I like the...possibilities of it. It can be anything--male or female, or both or neither--an angel, a spirit, a metaphor for many different things, a god or goddess..."  
  
"You're right. I kind of get that feeling. I like how the base is made of...well, the skirt or the bottom of the robe, whichever--the part below the wings--you don't see it right off, but it's long, straight feathers, kind of stylized, like the long flight feathers in the wings. Where'd you find something like this?"  
  
Turnbull smiled. "In a catalog. They're not rare, and not expensive. That one cost thirty dollars, I think."  
  
"Oh. Then it's not..."  
  
"A real sculpture, no, it's a casting."  
  
Ray glanced down at the bundle to his right. "And these are the ones I can't touch, right?"  
  
"Just not yet," Turnbull corrected him quickly. "They're my personal tools. I wanted to show them to you. It's really...very good of you to give me a place for a small altar here..."  
  
"Baby, we had that talk. Kindly don't try any more to convince me any more how much you appreciate it. I know." Ray smiled. "It's a dusty, empty corner and a little table. It's not like it's gonna be in my way. Well, the corner ain't dusty now, for sure. It probably hasn't been so clean since this building was put up. Here..." Ray got up and went to set the statue on the table in the far corner, coming back to the couch. "So these are your tools."  
  
"Yes, some of them. This is my athame. I prefer the term 'knife' because nobody can find any good reason to call it an athame other than Gerald Gardner's affectations, but most people call it an athame anyway, to distinguish it from other knives as being the one that directs energy--there are other knives, like the work knife, the curfane; or the sickle-shaped knife, which some people call the bolline--Gardner's 'white-handled knife', but that knife was only supposed to be used to cut sacred herbs, and never be made of iron or steel, and other such things that are pretty much only observed by Gardnerians and Alexandrians, and the Faery tradition--they don't have much steel anything, faeries don't like steel. And people use the sickle-shaped knife for a lot of things now; some people draw their circle with it, even. They think it makes more sense, since the common people--witchcraft is supposed to be a rebuilding of the common religions, those practiced by the people and not the few rich--would have had scythes and sickles, but hardly swords. It has a few names, like the sickle."  
  
"Yeah, it looks kind of like a sword, but cut down to the mini size. Where'd you get it?"  
  
Turnbull grinned. "At a smoke shop run by an Asian family of my acquaintance. They sell the usual knives and such, and 'fantasy' knives and accoutrements. This happens to be a fairly well-constructed example of a blade not intended for weapon use--a "Knight's Dagger". It isn't really a dagger, of course. I brought one of those as well--this one, with the black spiral handle. It was my athame for some years. As you can see, he has a very sharp point, but within about an inch of it, the edge becomes far less sharp."  
  
"Well, yeah. It's a stabber, this is a diamond-shaped blade...a blade too narrow, you stick it into something, and it's thin enough to take a good edge all the way up, it breaks off."  
  
"Yes, I see you know something about the type of weaponry. In any case, this is my wand..."  
  
"Pretty. Well, and practical. Looks solid. Nice dark wood, nice clear crystal on the end. The feathers and beads are a nice touch."  
  
"A...friend of mine made it for me, a long time ago. She said it was especially suited to me, for various reasons--her tradition didn't make much of the insistence on certain types of wood being cut at certain phases of the moon for certain different types of wands, et cetera. She made this...more with *me* in mind. I also have an oak staff, which I didn't bring. It's a bit awkward to carry. They both represent the south and fire in my tradition, though there are a few traditions in which the knife represents fire, and the wand, or staff, air--or the sword, air; and the knife, fire."  
  
"Stop before I get confused. Okay. How about the silver cup?"  
  
"It's called a number of things, 'cup' being one of them. Also chalice, a more formal name. It represents the west, and water."  
  
"It's pretty. Where'd it come from?"  
  
"It was a gift from another witch I knew once, and had belonged to a witch before her."  
  
"Kinda big."  
  
"I suspect it was a coven chalice, which everyone would pass around and take a sip from. There are different rituals that go with that. Here...one of my pentacles."  
  
"That's really nice. Wood and silver?"  
  
"The wood is stained firwood, but just as representative of earth as hardwood, and the pentacle platen is silver plated. It goes in the north."  
  
"These are cool. You bring 'em over sometimes, let us hang with you while you do what you do? Fraser'd love it, he's totally into different religions and ritual stuff. Practically never shuts up about it some days. I have to tell you about this case we were working on, turned out our perp was a 'bokor'. That's a--well, it's a Voodoo thing. What'd Fraser say--Voudun."  
  
"Yes, I've heard of it. I can...I could do an esbat here, if you'd like. Or just cast a circle, like I was going to do tonight to dedicate the altar. I know you wouldn't have a..."  
  
"...bad attitude? Act like a seventh grader?"  
  
"Something like that. You'd respect it, so there's no reason not to have you. We often have friends at circle, or just people who are curious. We don't proselytize, but we can answer questions and let people come to circle and such if they want to know more. The only stipulation is they behave like any adult at any religious service; with some courtesy and respect." Turnbull's voice was soft, as it had been all this time; Ray suspected he wasn't sure how to handle talking about this, so he was just using the language he was used to hearing or reading. He already knew that Turnbull was a solitary, and that no one but a few people knew of his religious affiliations.  
  
"That's not much to ask. I wouldn't go into someone's church and put my feet on the pew in front of me and snack out of a box of popcorn or whatever. You brought 'em tonight to make the altar, you said?"  
  
"To help consecrate it, yes. There are a lot of ways to do that; this is just my way. I have some other things here--" he peeked down into the bag. "A salt dish and another water dish, a candle, and Heathcliff in my tote, a few other things..."  
  
"Go to it. Can I help?"  
  
"Do you have any soft music you like?"  
  
Ray blinked. "You play music?"  
  
"Sometimes. Usually, I suppose, though sometimes I play nature sounds. I like background sound. When I pause, for thinking, or just until it feels right to go to the next step, it's nice to have something there besides a resounding silence. In covens, someone playing something, a guitar or a harp, is nice. We often use drums as a background, or other rhythm instruments. Someone ringing silver bells helps keep any negativity at bay, but you need more than one person for those sorts of things."  
  
"Oh, wait for Fraser to get here, then. He can play something."  
  
"I--don't know if--" Turnbull bit his lip. Fraser's musical repertoire wasn't really what he usually thought of as the most comfortable background music for ritual.  
  
"He can play a few chords slow, over and over. Come on, he'd love to be included. Just thrill his pumpkin pants clean off."  
  
Fraser probably would, Turnbull knew. And his own hesitation at doing ritual with Fraser, as opposed to just having him in attendance--he was part of the ritual, not an observer, if he was playing music for it--was silly, honestly. Wasn't he putting this little altar here as a *compromise* between sharing his own apartment--into which no one corporeal but him or Dief, and the occasional other nonhuman, ever went--and keeping them shut away from this aspect of his life entirely, because it was such an important aspect? He didn't see Ray or Fraser following the same path he did, but witches believed that all paths, sincerely followed, went the same place anyway. They would respect his philosophy, and Fraser, as Ray had said, would probably be fascinated. Ray would likely just think it was pretty cool, he thought fondly. Well, the Goddess and God, or Spirit, or the universe, or the Mother, or however your tradition addressed deity, probably thought Ray was pretty cool, too.   
  
"We'll wait for Fraser," Turnbull decided, and Ray grinned that blinding, beautiful grin, happy and sharing it; it came off him in waves.  
  
"You have the most beautiful smile in the world," Turnbull said softly, reaching up to touch Ray's face, smiling when Ray ducked his head shyly. "Fraser--Benton--may be the most beautiful man either of us have ever seen, but your smile...we were just saying, last night..."   
  
"You talking about me behind my back, you bad bad boys?" Ray grinned again.  
  
Turnbull grinned back. "Yes. While we were in his room, having a little...visit."  
  
"Oh." Ray's eyes got big and he immediately climbed into Turnbull's lap on the couch, one knee to either side of the bigger man's legs, setting the bag carefully aside as Turnbull started to giggle at Ray's expression and helped him get situated as comfortably as might be, considering how lanky as Ray was. "Tell. Tell." He leaned down and gave Turnbull a series of quick, soft, breath-stealing kisses. "Tell. You get naked and everything?"  
  
"Ray! You've slept on that cot."  
  
"Uh, okay, yeah, you'd likely both get dead tryin' that, but you can't've been in the serge."  
  
"No. You were here sleeping, and Lieutenant Welsh had asked Benton to kindly kill anyone who tried to disturb you, because--according to him, of course, not to make any judgements--you apparently become rather difficult for him to control on too little sleep and too much caffeine and sugar; you'd spent two full days with only naps in the holding cells, working one of your recent cases...?"  
  
"The fucking Barkerson. Tell you about it later. Go on."  
  
"Well, Benton and I both happened to find ourselves at loose ends last night...although there *was* the curling match, I *must* tell you about it, played between--"  
  
"No curling. Kissing, hugging, groping. Tell."  
  
Turnbull could only laugh for a bit as they sort of tussled and sort of made out there on the couch, which was really not big enough for two tall people and such an activity, but Turnbull knew Ray liked that about it--Turnbull had to hold Ray up, keep him close, prevent him from sliding too far or falling, and Ray was still enjoying the novelty of being with someone large enough to do that. Fraser could manage it, but only about as easily as Ray could manage it with Fraser. Turnbull could do it without even thinking. Physically, things were pretty mutual with Ray and Fraser; Fraser had twenty pounds on Ray, but Ray had noticeable--that close up, for sure--reach on Fraser.  
  
"There's not much to really *tell*, Ray...well. If we weren't all...like we are, I couldn't tell you we even had--"  
  
"Details. I want details. Sure I know how sex goes, just tell me how the particulars went *this* time. I had to miss out," Ray bounced a little in Turnbull's lap, making cute and pouting, but not bouncing hard enough to break either his own ass or Turnbull's knees; Turnbull had to laugh again. For a man his age, Ray did cute awfully well when he was in the mood to put effort into it.  
  
"I went to see him, and we made dinner, and watched the match, and retired to his office...and, well, we *did*, ahm, have sex, but we had our clothes on..."  
  
"Oh geez, I'm gettin' hard. You had *wall* sex--" Turnbull burst out laughing, but Ray didn't let it interrupt him. "--the born-starched mounties had *wall* sex, or desk sex or something, oh, man, this is good. How'd it start? Little necking? Mm? Maybe pop a few buttons on that flannel?"  
  
"He was wearing a Henley, and jeans. All in all, for him, he looked, well...not to speak ill..."  
  
"He was a mess. For Fraser. He was rumpled. Rrrrumpled Fraser." Ray wiggled again as he rolled the r, sending Turnbull into a spate of giggles. "Mmmyeah. How about you?"  
  
"I had on an arrow shirt and jeans, my faux eelskin boots."  
  
"Western guy. Hat too?"  
  
"Yes, but I took it off when I came in, then put it on him after he kissed me hello. He had it on most of the evening, though it was off by the time we were in his room."  
  
"Tell me more. This is a totally unexpected side benefit of there being three of us--you telling me about you messing around when I can't be there is, is *foreplay*, I *love* it."  
  
"You're a strange and wonderful man."  
  
"Pot, meet kettle."  
  
Turnbull smiled and kissed him. "I suppose I might...find it stimulating, now that you mention it. Hearing about...well. You know. We missed you, though."  
  
"'Course, I bet you were missing the bed more than me."  
  
"By no means. We would far rather have had you than any bed. That's why we were talking about you...and your smile, such a beautiful smile...and your fingers..."  
  
"Oo, my fingers..." Ray did another wiggle on Turnbull's lap, this one a loco-motion thing, with his hips twisting and his legs involved.   
  
Turnbull grabbed his hips and did one back. "Your long, strong fingers...and your lovely, golden skin. Your long eyelashes, and those beautiful eyes--pink, soft lips...the way you...mmm..." Ray was working on Turnbull's neck and ear, his lips soft and moist, gentle and insistent, as Turnbull turned his head up, exposing more throat. "Ohhh...and we spoke of...your expressions, how beautiful you are...when...aroused..." Turnbull knew he *had* to be turned on, now; he ordinarily couldn't say such things without blushing. He was flushed, but it was all over him, and Ray was pressing himself against the reason in a gentle rhythm. "I told him...how you made me come, with just your fingers inside me..."  
  
Ray groaned. "Oh God...yeah...say, he dint...didn't...nobody mentioned that to 'im yet...?"  
  
"No, he was...amazed, one might even say...thrilled...he loves your fingers...oh, Ray..."  
  
"Soon...just a few...tell me more..."  
  
"We were against his desk, me leaning on it...he was...oh Ray--"  
  
"Soon, what was he--"  
  
"Against me, pushing, he had his leg pushed in between mine, pushing up, into...into me...I had my hands...on his...I was holding his--"  
  
"On his ass, you had him by the ass, pulling him up--"  
  
"--yes--oh--" Turnbull had *Ray* by the ass now, rocking, pressing. "I was squeezing him there, his ass is so..."  
  
"Yeah, so round, so firm, so fully packed--who got your pants open?"  
  
"He did, I was holding us together, he got us...unzipped and...and he...he..."  
  
"He pulled your cocks out..."  
  
"And he held them together in his hand and he told me...in my ear--how it felt, when you...when you licked him, his...where you'd had your fingers in me..."  
  
"Yeah, when I rimmed him--we were all...damp from the shower, he was warm, wet, he tasted..." Ray trailed off, breathing hard and fast.  
  
"How did he taste?" Turnbull whispered faintly, scarce believing he could ask.  
  
"Slick, sweetish, blood-warm, like his skin but *more*, just more, of him...soft...*delicate*, against my mouth, my tongue, like a mouth but softer, so soft, a little...salty, good...and you were there...*tell* me, what happened, with you two..."  
  
"Yes--I saw, and what I saw, he told me just...just what it felt like, how good you were, how he...melted, felt turned inside out, how he'd never thought that could...make him so crazy, for you, for it, for *anything*...I was going to come, and I didn't want to yet--I pushed him back and I slid down him, and I took him...I took him in my mouth...his foreskin is so long, I can...slide my tongue in under, all around, though it pushes right back if you want to...move it...even when he's hard, when he's pink and shining and--and--*Ray*--"  
  
Ray groaned loudly. "God. *God*, bed. *Now*."  
  
But it wasn't that easy. They made it, but they fell down, both of them, no less than twice, trying to make love with all their clothes on, on the way in there. The second fall, however, had them laughing so much, even as they winced, that they managed to slow down some before they reached the bed.   
  
Neither of them--none of them, when Fraser was there--were much for stripteases; it was mostly a matter of get the damn clothes out of the way, though sometimes they couldn't wait for them all to come off before they lost it and jumped each other. Ray and Turnbull rolled around on the bed like kids, kicking off shoes and yanking at buttons and zippers, half horny as hell and half laughing.  
  
"I never--" Ray paused, panting, on top of Turnbull, up on both arms, looking down at the younger man's flushed face. "I uh, never...never expected to feel like this again. Like--I dunno, young, like everything in the world is still out there waiting for me, like I got all the time in the world..." he caressed Turnbull's face. "I think that's you, doin' that to me. Fraser makes me feel things, all kinds of 'em. And both of you, together and separately, make me feel some things, God knows. But that one...that one I think is you. Thanks for that."  
  
Turnbull didn't know what to say, how to say that he couldn't be responsible for such a gift. "It's...probably just the hormones, Ray," he said, and managed a smile.  
  
"Nuh-uh," Ray said, lowering himself over Turnbull, hands moving quick to finish getting his shirt off, "it's you. I--oh, shit. I just mean--that you mean so much to me--" he got rid of the shirt and pulled Turnbull's shorts off, leaving him naked. He himself was still in his jeans, and Turnbull reached for the waistband, knowing what Ray had been about to say, desperate that it not undermine this, trying not to think about it; that became easier as he slid Ray's jeans and boxer briefs down, and Ray kicked them off and fell on him full-length.  
  
They kissed and moved together like a couple of horny anacondas. Not that anacondas kissed, as far as Turnbull knew. He squeezed and stroked and wrapped himself around Ray, moaning into his mouth, getting rolled over and wrapped around by Ray in turn, sparing a thought to be glad for the size of the bed as they ended up rolling over yet again and Ray said "Hold *still* I'm *dyin'* here, you cruel bastard--" a soft laugh.  
  
"Ray, fuck me," Turnbull heard himself saying wildly, and that slowed Ray down a little, for sure, and Turnbull felt his mouth open and the stream of babble building behind it, but fortunately Ray recognized the signs too and got a hand over his mouth in time.   
  
"No apologizing for asking, for language, for *anything*," Ray said, "and no telling me all about the details of every related subject in the world; just tell me this--are you sure? You said you've never been on that end of it before. There's no law says you've gotta be. Plenty of guys aren't into it, even if they do like assplay." At Turnbull's look of brief bewilderment, Ray, just to save time, added "'Fingers'."  
  
"Mm. I want to," Turnbull panted quickly when Ray cautiously removed his hand. "I do. You like it--you *love* it, apparently."  
  
"Yeah, so I'm a bottom whore," Ray said with exaggerated casualness, shrugging with one shoulder; then he grinned. "I like it, and Fraser's plenty up for it, every now and then, too; he just does it less 'cause he knows I'm a slut for it and he's polite even in bed. So you got a couple good recs there, but--"  
  
"How will I know if I don't try? I like when you...use your fingers..."  
  
"The old happy button speaks up pretty well for you back there, huh?"  
  
"You made me come that way without even touching my penis. What do you think?"  
  
"Well, you probably do wanna at least try but stop humping my leg or I don't think I can...okay. Okay, one more thing--you got *any* sort of medical problem with your gut at all? Any chronic thing, or any recent--"  
  
"I'm in perfect health, Ray. Everywhere," Turnbull assured him, leaning on the last word impatiently.  
  
"Okay--I hear you," Ray grinned. "Patience, my friend, patience. I ain't goin' anywhere. Where's the stuff--still in here, unless somebody moved it..." they happened to be near the bedtable with the drawer containing lube, condoms, and a roll of thick, quilted paper towels, in case of emergency. Not that they couldn't figure out the timesaving convenience of terrycloth for keeping unslimy under bed-bouncing circumstances (especially if, in the occasional confusion, somebody put a knee on the lube before it got recapped or something). Or at least of hanging on to Ray's t-shirt, which they had, in this instance; also, three guys could drop and fling clothes on and off a king-size and nearly always end up with *something* expendable within reach, since Fraser and Turnbull were keeping clothes here now, and had backups.  
  
"Here, your legs are *long*, baby; it'll be a lot easier if you're on your stomach."  
  
"I like it that way, actually...when we do, the other way--me on top--you're...so close, that way," Turnbull whispered, "I can hold you, tight..."  
  
Ray smiled, and kissed him, saying "I like that about it, too. Plus, it's least strain on the bottom, because...hell, I keep forgetting what a gymnast you are. Guess 'cause you don't look it, so tall, and I'm always off doin' something else while you're practicing; sometimes I can't stand to look, scared you're gonna...never mind. Anyway, you've got *rocks* for muscles, dense as hell--but they flex like rubber bands. You could probably do it on your back just as easy, if you want to."  
  
"No...this way." He was much freer to show his true emotions if Ray couldn't see his face. Sometimes Fraser had been there, when Turnbull was on top of Ray, but all he had to do was arrange himself quickly such that turning his head to the side Fraser wasn't would seem obviously more comfortable, if it was light; and if it wasn't, it didn't matter. No one would be able to distinguish differences that minute in his expression if the light level was low. Grimaces of combined anguish and ecstasy could look very much like sheer sexual enjoyment, even with the tears, which could be explained away, as long as they weren't copious. And if he was on his face, he thought, and bottoming, he could simply wipe them on the bedclothes with artful movements of his head before they became sufficient to be noted with alarm by anyone, even Ray, close as he would be.  
  
"Here you go...self-warming. You know, for the other stuff, we should get one of those little warmers Frannie says the Ob-gyn has, keeps the lube and instruments from making the poor woman shriek and hit the ceiling like she says always used to happen. I can just imagine. All we get is a skin-temperature finger, though the lube's pretty cold."   
  
"We'll only need a warmer if you think we'll need a speculum or some such," Turnbull smiled, wriggling, then pulling one long leg underneath him, then the other. "Here, so I can keep from..."  
  
"Rubbing off against the sheets too soon, gotcha... " Ray began kissing his back and shoulders, and he sighed, and Ray added another finger, and he took a breath and relaxed, then jumped. "Oh! Warn me, really," he grinned at himself.  
  
"Sorry," Ray said, the word a little muffled by the kisses he was trailing along Turnbull's scapula. "Wanted to make sure I remembered where it was right...and...here's another finger, probably some burn..."  
  
"Mmf...erm. Yes."  
  
"Bad? You gotta tell me, baby. Even if you don't want me to stop, keep me informed, here."  
  
"I'll do that, Ray...yes, it burns. So, this is what it means when people say that," he oh-welled, with a dry snort, to a sympathetic chuckle from Ray. "The width...it's a bit uncomfortable..."  
  
"Here..." Ray grabbed a pillow, which Turnbull took and tucked himself around, keeping him nicely supported, since it might take a bit before Ray was willing to try this with his penis. "I remember. At first it's...kinda...makes y'wanna..."  
  
"Makes me feel like I should be excusing myself to the bathroom," Turnbull finished. "To clean up."  
  
"Well, no matter what it feels like, you don't need it, if you were wondering. Which knowing you, you might've been and been too embarrassed to ask...there...you feel that burn letting up yet?"  
  
"Mm....yes." Turnbull moved experimentally.  
  
"I'm gonna keep on here...a little longer...long as I can stand it, at least, God, watching you like this..."  
  
Turnbull spread his legs a little more, knowing he'd need to when Ray finally mounted him. "Does this help?" He tried straightening his spine some, pressing his lower belly downward instead of letting his back curve up, lifting his tailbone.  
  
"Yeah, opens a little...Christ, looks hot too, I gotta not watch or I'm gonna come as soon as I get in there, geez--Turnbull, baby, you are so *beautiful*..." He started in kissing again; Ray liked to kiss and mouthe almost as much as Fraser did--though Fraser had actually come just from fellating Turnbull once. Fraser enjoyed giving all kinds of oral stimulation, and he was very, very good at it. Must be a natural, according to Ray, since Fraser's prior experience was, according to Fraser, extant but limited.  
  
"Whatcha thinkin'? Anything but 'Mm, nice'?"  
  
"About...hmm...all of us, and our...various levels of penchant for giving...pleasure with our mouths..."  
  
"Oh, thinkin' of Fraser, then," Ray chuckled, and kept kissing, then paused, and giggled a little. "And me, I guess, with my mouth all over you..."  
  
"I love your mouth all over me. Don't stop. Yes," he continued as Ray kept stretching him carefully, occasionally deliberately stroking his prostate, still kissing everything within reach, "I was thinking of him...and the time he came from..."  
  
"...going down on you...Christ, I nearly did too, he was *so* fucking *into* it..."  
  
"...yes...oh...Ray, try now."  
  
"Mmkay," Ray murmured, removing his lips from their current spot, and moving over him. "Get that pillow however you want it...you'll want something to hang onto, and I need my hands for this part, to do it and stay up here."  
  
"Right," Turnbull said, adjusting his pillow.  
  
"I'm gonna push past the sphincter, feel kind of a pop--there. Okay?"  
  
"Yes--fine--"  
  
Ray panted a few times, and murmured "Revolting mental pictures, don't fail me now. Here we go..." Ray slid in very slightly, then back out; before Turnbull could wonder what he was doing, he slid in again, just a tiny fraction deeper, then out again, and continued the pattern, very slowly. "Still okay?"  
  
"Mm-hm...I want to...push back..."  
  
"Don't yet, baby, let me get in further." Ray kept moving, and pretty soon he was in halfway.   
  
Turnbull was feeling almost drowsy. "More, Ray," he complained, and shifted up a little.  
  
"More, okay, more...you feel anything?"  
  
"Anything bad, you mean? Just...twinges. They go away, as you keep sliding like that, in and out but...slow...it's good...keep...mm..."  
  
And a blissful, floaty time later, he wasn't sure how long--couldn't have been too much time--he felt the coarseness of pubic hair and the softness of Ray's ball sac against his own body. "Oh," he said, and moved, deliberately, rocking his hips, and gasped. "Ah!"  
  
"Oh Jesus," Ray groaned. "Turnbull, mercy here--"  
  
As if he hadn't spoken, Turnbull continued "There--Ray--go, do it--fuck me--"  
  
Ray only made a desperate sound in response and began to speed up, and they started to get a rhythm going, Turnbull relaxing and letting his legs lift him and spread out a bit more, and Ray let himself down against Turnbull's back, arms going around him, squeezing.   
  
"Oh, baby...so good..."  
  
Yes, so good, Turnbull agreed, but only let a low moan, the first part of a sob he clamped off, escape; the rest of the sound was in his head, as a tear sharply spiked in the duct of his left eye. *I love you...*  
  
Ray began to move more vigorously, and Turnbull matched him, and Ray murmured "Easy...easy...gonna be sore when...take it slow, let's...let's make it slow..."  
  
"If you...like..."  
  
"I like. Don'tcha...wanna...make it last...?"  
  
"Yes..." God. If he could. He felt their closeness, soul-deep, and wondered how long he could feel what Ray was feeling, be with him like this, and keep it together.  
  
"Feel good?" Ray panted, hands stroking and rubbing Turnbull's chest, pausing to lightly pinch a nipple.  
  
"It's...incredible--" Turnbull's voice choked off. It *was* incredible, unlike anything he'd imagined, this warm thing inside, big, not being shaped by the contours of his insides the way anything else so massive up there generally was, but resisting, pushing against the inside of him; he moved his hips, feeling that, making it do it more...Ray was holding him tight, moaning, head resting against him just too low for a turned-head kiss, but that was all right, that was part of the reason he wasn't on his back, after all--  
  
Ray's hand was moving downward from his chest, rubbing his belly, cupping his balls, and Turnbull keened, all his limbs weakening. "Oh, *God*...but--I'll come too soon--" he said the last part really fast, between one push and another.  
  
"Okay...you tell me...when you want it here..." Ray gently grasped the base of his now-hard cock and released it at once, going back to the stroking and hugging.  
  
There was the sound of a fumbling at the front door, then the metallic scrape of a key in the lock, and the click and opening of the door.   
  
Ray and Turnbull, of course, didn't pause in what they were doing one iota. If Fraser wasn't alone, he'd know what was happening in the bedroom at once and immediately shove whoever he was with back out and shut the door behind them, then make his excuses in the hall. They might not be very intelligible, but one kinda had to pay a few little inconvenient prices for the kind of thing the three of them had going together. After all, if he'd let whoever he was with in just because the bedroom door was shut--it wasn't--it wasn't like *that* would have withstood the deductive abilities of anyone with an IQ higher than their shoe size, anyway.  
  
"Ray? Turnb--oh--oh, my." Fraser's voice was faint on the last words and Turnbull felt Ray smile against his back when the sound of all the deadbolts rapidly being thrown came.  
  
"Dief, early dinner. Here you--here." Kibble was dumped into Dief's dish, and there was the clunk of the refilled water bowl being set hastily on the floor.   
  
Turnbull dragged his upper face across the bedclothes as he looked up when Fraser stumbled hastily in, stopped, and fell back against the open door. "Oh, my Lord."  
  
Ray managed "Jump in any...Jesus..."   
  
"Any time," Turnbull finished for Ray, panting.  
  
"Jus' be careful," Ray added, paused, groaned and pressed deep in, his back arching; then he made a whimpering sound and resumed a more steady rhythm, "Turnbull's...first bottoming going...on, here...don't bounce the bed outa rhythm, don't wanna...haveta get back in...more'n we have to..."  
  
"Oh *God*," Fraser said, managed to get the door shut to keep the wolf out, and slid down against it, landing on his rear with a thud. "Oh, dear. Oh--errff--" thuds and fumbles and bonks; he apparently wasn't having an easy time of getting his clothes off. Finally there was the sound of a short rip and an undershirt flew over the two of them to land on the other side of the bed--Fraser was getting frustrated down there, it seemed.   
  
But in short order, he was up and moving around to the other side of the bed so as to approach them carefully, without, as Ray had said, bouncing the bed too much, for which Turnbull was grateful; not only would Ray falling out and having to get back in a bunch of times be annoying as hell, since Turnbull was working hard to zig and zag when Ray did; he didn't have a handle on this end of things yet--Mother, there was a terrible pun in there somewhere--and too much such yanking around would leave him sorer than need be.  
  
Once near enough, Fraser leaned down and kissed Turnbull's cheek, touching his jaw with a finger to turn it up enough to kiss his mouth, deep, but letting go quickly so as not to throw off his concentration, and then leaning up to kiss Ray, more thoroughly; the rhythm slowed while this was happening, and Turnbull made a plaintive sound. Fraser backed off, and murmured "I think perhaps..." he grabbed Ray's T-shirt, noticed Turnbull's pillow seemed to be unprotected, left the shirt for his use and grabbed his own shirt instead, a blue chambray work shirt, close to the color of his eyes. Turnbull thought he looked beautiful in it, but he wasn't going to do anything to it a washing wouldn't fix.  
  
Fraser lying next to them, stroking himself slowly, eyes and free hand moving over both of them, made Turnbull think of the first time they all made love together, and he spared a moment to be glad he had hung on tight to the memory. People like him tended to forget each day as it passed, since there was a bubbling undercurrent of horror that premised everything--it existed in the most basic part of their minds; there was no escaping it, nor the pall it cast over even the brightest moments--and so if he wanted to be sure to remember something, he had to do it consciously. He did, like other people in his position, remember things he *didn't* want to remember whether he liked it or not, but not the things he did want to, unless he made effort. He had stopped wondering, or being bitter, about it, a long time ago. It was simply part of the way the world was, for him.   
  
But he was glad he had, even though it turned out there *would* be other times with them together like this. He still wanted to remember as many as he could. It might be heartbreaking, later, when it was over, but he still wanted the option. After all, he felt no genuine happiness without heartbreak, anyway; that was why he needed to truly, deeply feel such things when he was alone, when it was safe.  
  
"Fraser--c'mere--get behind me," Ray panted, "I don't wanna do Turnbull much longer, he's not used to it. Doesn't know about the feel-like-sittin'-on-a-doughnut part, don't wanna make it worse than--"  
  
"I want you--oh, oh, oh--" he sobbed softly in time with Ray's thrusts, and finished "--I want you to--come in me, Ray--I'm--holding on for that--"  
  
Fraser made a soft, deep sound as Ray moaned and said "Me too, that's why I want Fraser, speed me up, I can't be too hard on you, here--"  
  
Fraser was moving already, and Turnbull wondered just exactly what he would do to help Ray come, and then Fraser's hand appeared and grabbed the lube on the bedtable, and Turnbull worried he wouldn't be able to keep things going with three of them--that just wasn't as easy as professionals in porn videos made it look, according to Ray (Turnbull had never seen any such videos himself)--but when Ray said "Go right for two fingers, I'm way up for it--yeah, oh yeah--" all was explained. He heard kissing sounds that weren't the ones coming from Ray's lips against his back, too, and moaned softly, feeling and picturing.   
  
Ray made a long noise that ended with the word "God", and sped up abruptly; Turnbull figured his best bet was just to brace himself in a good position and hold still, so he did, and Ray humped up a little higher on him and went for it again, panting, groaning, freezing in place for a brief moment, then letting out a wail and exploding into movement, probably trying to be careful, but Turnbull still had to exert some real effort to hold himself in place--he wouldn't be coming just from Ray in him the first time, evidently; too new, he supposed.  
  
But Ray was collapsed on his back, now, and he held Ray up, tenderly petting the arms still wrapped around him with one hand. Ray fumbled for his hand, found it, and squeezed, with a little caress as he let go. "Lemme...get...bear down and try to relax, this can be kinda ow-inducing..." he felt Ray grab the condom and, very slowly, began to pull free. Ray was right. There was ow. His erection actually deflated a bit, which it hadn't done--once becoming firm--all this time.   
  
But when he was out, the soreness wasn't too bad, though when he started to straighten his legs Ray caught and held him still, lifting his rear a little with his hands on Turnbull's hips. "Let me take a look, here...yeah, a little bright, but no bleeding I can see." With a lubed finger, he probed gently around the entrance and inside. "How's that feel?"   
  
"Sore, but nothing serious, I wouldn't imagine. I've..." he started to settle again and this time Ray let him, handing him the T-shirt for him to do his own wiping, since he would be able to do it with less discomfort than anyone else. "...I've had, ahm, experiences that left me in greater actual *pain* that were caused by nothing more dangerous or unusual than insufficient dietary fiber."  
  
Ray chuckled. He was still kind of on his knees, but leaning back half-sitting on Fraser's lap; Fraser was sitting on his own heels, holding Ray around the waist, nuzzling at his neck, peering through his hair and past his ear at Turnbull, eyes wide. God. He was so--well--Fraser, most of the time; but at times like this, so much innocent, unself-conscious sensuousness--soulful, sweet and earthy, and utterly unaware of his own appeal, no more than he ever was.   
  
He and Ray were lucky as *hell*.  
  
Ray continued "Good, that's good--no, I mean that it doesn't hurt, not takin' shits that make you need therapy--" Fraser stifled a snort in Ray's neck, his eyes squinching shut in amusement; Turnbull and Ray laughed too as Ray's sentence finished "--'cause we've all done those, and y'know the only good thing about *them* is the sense of unbelievable relief as you come stumblin' outta the can, wobbly-kneed and lookin' all shell-shocked."   
  
Fraser was still giggling into Ray's neck. Turnbull smiled again and said "Perhaps if Benton is done being amused, he and I could do something about our mutual problem?" He handed the T-shirt to Ray; there was likely at least a little lube to be dealt with from Fraser's assistance.  
  
"Whaddaya think, Frase?" Ray said, turning his head to snort and snuffle around in Fraser's thick wavy hair, which always made Fraser giggle, which Ray knew; Fraser giggled some more, squeezed Ray, and fell over on the bed with a sigh, reaching a hand out toward Turnbull. "How do you feel? Being your first, um. Usually it's a bit, well, not that...edifying. At least, that's how I felt about it; probably I just didn't know what to expect, or how to get the most from the act. But you seemed very..." Fraser sighed, his eyes closing. Evidently Turnbull's enjoyment had been very evident to him.  
  
"Oh, it was...*very* pleasurable, Ray was very good with me. But I haven't come yet," Turnbull added pointedly, raising one flexible eyebrow in a broad hint at Fraser.  
  
"I think he'd like to stop talking and get fucking," Ray opined, and got whomped with a pillow by Fraser, making Turnbull crack up. Even with the general silly antics, Turnbull's level of arousal didn't seem to be dropping, nor, to judge by his erection, was Fraser's.  
  
"I'll ask for your editorial opinion when I need it," Fraser told Ray, and pulled on the hand he was holding Turnbull by. "Come here," he invited the younger man. Turnbull rolled up to move close with Fraser, and they found a spot with one of the remaining pillows to wrap up, kiss, and hump against each other.   
  
In a few minutes, a sweating and moaning Fraser was whispering "Would you like to, um..."  
  
"...fuck him?" Ray volunteered from his spot with Turnbull's pillow, curled up with it, watching them, close enough to feel their heat.   
  
"You are earning yourself another drubbing," Fraser told him without looking at him, his mouth quirking, a secret smile for Turnbull. Silly Fraser. Turnbull smiled too.  
  
"Just trying to help," Ray said, and they could hear the grin in his voice.  
  
"He's right, that's what I was asking," Fraser said, smoldering at Turnbull, wrapping his legs up in Turnbull's longer ones and pressing a thigh up between Turnbull's.  
  
Turnbull made a sound that he would have had, if asked, to describe as pathetic, and said "That would be lovely," and kissed Fraser, deep and soft and hungry.  
  
"Oh good," Fraser murmured, and rolled on his back, grabbing Turnbull and pulling the other man with him. "Like this?"  
  
"Ahm--yes, if you like," Turnbull said. He had no usable reason to insist that Fraser be on his front if Turnbull was topping. The mild pain in his rear should be enough to concentrate on if he needed it. He hoped, at least. He wished his little protection bag was on this side of the bed; it was over on the other nighttable.   
  
He had a brainstorm. "Ray, would you--get the--" he was speaking around an impatient Fraser hauling him into position and sliding his own legs up onto Turnbull's shoulders. "--necessaries? And my spell bag?" He got abruptly shifted and nearly lost his balance, and added "...*before* Benton eats me alive?" Just slipped in there with the request for lube and condom, nobody would bother to remark on his asking for the spell bag, even if they wondered briefly.   
  
He was right. Laughing, Ray did as he was asked while Fraser grabbed Turnbull's left arm and yanked, dropping the younger man's weight on Fraser's legs, which sturdy appendages caught him quite handily--cross-country skiing was excellent for the hamstrings, among other things--and pretended to eat the grabbed arm while Ray laughed louder and Turnbull, giggling, flailed himself back to stability with his legs to keep from crushing Fraser, holding himself in a three-point configuration until Fraser was distracted by Ray coming back with the things they'd asked for. Turnbull used his released arm to take the spell bag--once again, he wasn't sure it would be much help, since he was basically letting in this particular danger, but it couldn't hurt--and set it on the other bedtable by him while Fraser took the lube and condom, which he handed to Turnbull as soon as the younger man was ready. He sat back, applying the condom, to the intense fascination of Ray and Fraser both, he was aware; he felt himself, if it were possible, swell even more inside the latex; and he leaned back over Fraser with one arm, carefully beginning to lube him up.   
  
"Faster," Fraser said. "Actually, now would be quite good, if you're aMENable ah, you are, excellOOhmyGod," Fraser groaned, and shut up, finally, as Turnbull moved.   
  
This, they'd both done before; and they were both about ready to explode. Fraser couldn't contribute much in this position but some desperate roving hand action and heartfelt vocalizations, but that was more than enough; Turnbull was ready to pound somebody into next week by this time, and he hoped, somewhere in his lust-sodden brain, that he hadn't been too rough as Fraser began to gasp and sob in pleasure, one hand wrapped around his dick, trying to hold things back, but it wasn't working; finally he gave in and pumped twice and he was coming, and his cries and squeeze and arched shoulders did it for Turnbull, who closed his eyes and God *yes* thrust powerfully, keening a soft, high keen, finally moaning in defeated exhaustion and moving his arms to let Fraser slide his legs down from Turnbull's shoulders. Fraser then wrapped his legs around Turnbull's waist, and pulled him back down with them, adding his arms around the younger man's neck, and Turnbull had to move quick to make sure his face hit the pillow first--making it look due to mischance--and he was able to use it to blot his eyes. A little bit of teariness or nasal congestion wouldn't be remarked on in the general sweating and bodily exudences, but there was a point past which one couldn't rely on that.   
  
He then willingly cuddled his face into Fraser's neck, having to bend a bit to do it, and only twitched a little when he felt a hand--not his, not Fraser's--around the base of his cock. "Come on," Ray said softly, and, reluctantly, Turnbull pulled himself free of Fraser's wonderfully hot body, wishing he could stay until he softened. He made a little popping sound as he pulled loose.  
  
"I wish we didn't have to use 'em either," Ray said gently, and Turnbull froze, then decided that if Ray had come to assist, his and Fraser's reluctance must have been obvious by their curling together like they had; Ray wasn't detecting his feelings directly. For Turnbull, that possibility was a real concern, though he knew it wasn't for most people. Ray was continuing, "except when we wanna be as neat as possible, or somebody's been getting pee tract infections. Besides...it's true, we all got enough trust going that if anyone did it with anyone else--anyone but the three of us--he'd tell the other two; and *definitely* not have sex with 'em again without telling 'em. But there's more than one way to get the virus. Fraser and I work around high-risk people; sometimes the work's violent. A lotta times violent, really--I still get sick thinkin' about what kinda mutated ear herpes, or worse, I mightta picked up from that *fucking* little freakshow. Fraser's detection methods are kinda, shall we say, *stupid* when it comes to exposing himself to shit. Blood flies sometimes. And you can get it from topping, too--if you can get pee tract infections, you can get the virus, though it's less likely; you've been tested enough times since the last time you were with anybody but us, and you do office work. If you're topping, your choice." Ray was swabbing Turnbull and Fraser with the designated T-shirt; done with Turnbull quickly, as soon as the condom was disposed of, he was still gentle, but more thorough, with Fraser.  
  
They'd had this talk before, obviously, but occasionally it would come up again, Turnbull knew, for the other two wanting Turnbull to know he had the option. Coming back from where he'd been leaning to toss the condom in the trash, Turnbull shook his head. "No. You would worry about me, if I didn't wear one. And besides, no one alive is completely safe; it's not utterly impossible I might give it to one of *you*. As you say, there are too many ways besides sex to get the virus."   
  
He held an arm out to Ray, as did Fraser, and Ray moved in to join the post-coital cuddle. They always did this, after they all came. Even if one of them had to leave for some reason, there was always at least a minute or so of group hug, and they all loved it when it could turn naturally into group nap, or just a bliss-out session; and best when they could sleep the night, and more than likely fool around some more. It was good, Turnbull thought in deep satisfaction, that they all loved touch, sexual or not. Fraser, true, only in private circumstances; but none of them were intimately affectionate in public--casually, Ray was, and both mounties were comfortable with his idle back pats and his arm around their shoulders, but that was all either of them were up for in uniform. However, once out of uniform and relaxed, even Fraser was as anxious to feel them as they were to feel him. Possibly more.  
  
"Also there's the other reason you mentioned," Turnbull murmured in an oh-well tone. "I'm told urinary tract infections are unpleasant in the extreme."  
  
Ray affirmed "They are. I had one. I practically screamed straight through every piss I took until the pills they gave me started to calm it down and clear it up. Yeesh."   
  
He moved a leg, and Fraser tried to accommodate the movement but it didn't work, and then Turnbull and Fraser couldn't get situated, and Turnbull said "Why don't I..." and he let go of them and moved, and they floundered around a minute until Turnbull was under the two of them, and they all reorganized, and snugged up close again. "There, comfy."  
  
"Very." Fraser squirmed closer, and kissed Ray's arm.   
  
Warm. Warmth. A cloud, an energy swirl, of sweetness and protection enveloped them, with Turnbull at the center of it. He smiled at the tears rising to his eyes. He didn't need to hide these.  
  
One finally dripped, and touched Ray's temple; he lifted his head, saw the dripping wetness. "Baby? What's wrong?"  
  
"Nothing. I'm happy." And sad. But that part didn't need saying right now, if ever. He smiled at Ray.  
  
Ray wiped at the tears, kissed his face where they'd been, and squeezed them all close, with Fraser's help. "I...I'm happy, too."  
  
Another aborted "I love you". But Turnbull could shoulder this one aside pretty easily, the way they felt now. He turned his head and kissed Fraser's soft, soft hair, burying his mouth and nose in it for a few moments. "Hmmm," he sighed, spreading warm breath against the other man's scalp.  
  
"I love this," Fraser whispered, in a softly wondering voice. "I really do. And for so long..."  
  
"What's not to love?" Ray asked, but his tone showed he understood, and felt the same.   
  
"Nap," Turnbull said softly, and they all gave token nap-situating wriggles, though they didn't actually move from their spots worth mentioning. They were already all quite comfortable. They were getting very good at that, Turnbull noted absently.  
  
"Mm," Ray said, the only response either of them made; they just closed their eyes, skin warmth everywhere, soothing, healing, renewing.   
  
***  
  
Turnbull woke up with just Fraser; Ray had tucked the covers carefully around them and disappeared someplace. A glance at the clock over on the other side of the bed told him they'd napped for less than an hour, which was good; they didn't want to screw up their sleep schedules. Ray had probably only lain quietly with them and rested in the bath of their warmth, then got up when his moving or just being awake might have penetrated their sleep.  
  
Wherever he was, if he'd gotten dressed, it was in a different shirt, Turnbull reflected in passing, before turning to Fraser and enveloping him, beginning to kiss him on any skin within reach. God. So long, watching this man, calling him sir, being so aware of the work-related gulf between them...and then a friendlier relationship, and outright friendship, and then...this. It had been at least somewhat gradual, but from where they were now, it felt sudden, and he still wondered at being able to hold Fraser like this, naked and close, to show what he'd felt for so long. He caressed the other man's faintly light-limned, evenly snow-pale skin. "I love you," he mouthed into Fraser's collarbone.  
  
Fraser's hand came up and stroked the back of his head. Oops. He would have been able to decipher that.  
  
But he seemed to sense the tension in the younger man, and murmured only "I'll abide by your wishes, Turnbull. I know you didn't mean for me to be aware of that. Kiss me."  
  
Turnbull lifted his head and they kissed, very softly, for a minute or two. Finally Fraser whispered "Where's Ray?"  
  
"Do you hear him?"  
  
"He's...in the front room...very quiet. Perhaps he's reading."  
  
"I'd wondered, thought I might be misinterpreting what I heard. But he's here, and I don't hear him moving at all...shall we get up or just call him?"  
  
"Call him. I don't want to get up. I think I'm going to get an apartment, Turnbull." He smiled. "I've never had much in the way of a genuine bed, and never felt the lack of it; but Ray, and you, are getting me addicted to wallowing." Turnbull smiled back, stroking Fraser's cheek with the backs of his fingers.  
  
Then he turned his face up toward the ceiling. "Ray?" He raised his voice a little. "Can you come in, or are you busy?"  
  
There was a pause, then a shuffle and soft, padding footsteps. Ray, still naked, came back in and got back in bed with them. "I was with your altar. It's...I was remembering the altars mom had around the place, a Mary shrine, like that. It's...peaceful. It's not the same as the lady in the blue shawl, but it's got something about it that reminds me...I like it. You mind if I sit with it sometimes?"  
  
Turnbull shook his head. "No, not at all. It's your house, I was making this altar to be here; your being associated with it, getting...your vibes, as you might put it, involved with it, is to be expected."  
  
"Your own tools are still on it, though."  
  
"It's no harm to them, once in a while--with someone you trust. You...respect them, Ray. I don't mean--it's not a...a kowtowing sort of thing, it's rather like the basic respect one gives to other people, just because they're people, and deserve it; until or unless they prove themselves undeserving. It's not intimidated respect, not...fear, just..."  
  
"Nah, they're friendly," Ray said. "Friendly respect. I didn't touch them, though. Didn't need to. Just looked. You know how things talk to you sometimes without words?"  
  
Turnbull nodded slowly, his eyes wide. Ray? Knew that? And spoke of it so casually? He flashed on reasons he might be so very drawn to Ray, when Ray was--well--not, superficially, his type; except for being quite physically alluring, when he turned it on.  
  
"The altar talks that way, your tools do. It all feels very...you. Except for that statue. That's...hard to describe."  
  
"Yes. That's one of the reasons I like the design. It's not...any *one* thing. It's all things, or anything. Or nothing. I'm reminded of a cult that used only a live flame as their representation of the unseen, their..."  
  
"...thing to make it easier to...connect with something so...abstract? It's kinda like that. You seen it, Fraser?"  
  
Fraser shook his head. "I'm afraid my attention was focused elsewhere almost at once, when I came in."  
  
"Oh, yeah, I guess so." Ray smiled.   
  
"I was anxious to join you; I didn't get a look around."  
  
"Dief is lying in the floor by the altar. He likes it."  
  
Turnbull just nodded absently. "Animals often do."  
  
"They like witches, too, I hear. What's up with that? Witches aren't vegetarians or anything, are they? Animals can recognize people who won't eat 'em?"  
  
"Not most of us, no, we're not. Some are. As far as being...recognized by nonhuman species...I don't really know. I think myself that it has to do with the fact that we don't think of them as being fundamentally different from us. They're not us, but they're like us. If humans are people, then other animals must be people. And some animals can tell if a given human feels that way about it."  
  
"Who gives them respect like the basic respect you give a person," Ray part-quoted him. "Animals too, huh."  
  
"Since humans are animals, I think Turnbull would say nonhumans, Ray," Fraser smiled, and Ray grinned back.   
  
"So okay, I can be that weird on my own time, but don't let it get around at the station or I'm dead. Nonhumans. Trees and stuff, too?"  
  
"Yes. Trees and microbes, plankton and dandelions and spiders--any people who aren't human," Turnbull said. "Though many of us, especially those whose traditions draw on native New World cultures, extend that to clouds, rivers, mountains, rocks...certain concepts...everyone. It's one of the terrible mysteries that life feeds on life, and that we have to kill to live--most animals do, that is--but it doesn't make the life we feed on any less...like us. Any less people."  
  
Ray just gazed at him fondly. "I don't always get you. But I always get why I like you." He smiled and kissed Turnbull's shoulder, as Fraser made a sound of agreement and pressed his lips to the younger man's temple. "Though I bet Fraser gets you more often than I do."  
  
"Sometimes," Fraser said. "I was raised with several fundamentally different cultural models around me, though. It's no wonder it's easier for me to understand."  
  
"I think Ray understands more than he knows," Turnbull said softly.  
  
"I know that he does," Fraser chuckled.   
  
"I'm bein' ganged up on," Ray complained. "How can I understand what I don't understand?"  
  
"You do understand. You just don't bother with words, or with dwelling on it. Like a fish not noticing water," Fraser said. "You...are it. Part of it."  
  
"Or a turtle," Ray pondered. "A turtle not noticing."  
  
"Or a turtle." Fraser's eyes crinkled with his smile, and Turnbull felt a burst of sweetness for both of them.  
  
"I wonder if Semimodo would like to visit the altar," Turnbull suggested.  
  
"Oh, he'd love it. Scoot around, get it all wet. Wanna come out while I have him out for exercise? Have to keep an eye on him, so he doesn't get lost or take a fall and crack his shell or anything. He's pretty mobile. And so the mutt don't eat him."  
  
"That sounds like fun," Turnbull said, perkily.  
  
Ignoring the comment about Dief, Fraser just added "Yes, and I can make us some sandwiches. We'll need something to keep our strength up, since we're both staying over tonight."   
  
***  
  
The door of Ray's apartment had barely slammed behind Fraser and Ray as they rounded on each other, Fraser mad enough to spit nails--meaning he was seething internally, with barely a change in expression beyond the utter lack of smile on his face and lowered brows--and Ray mad that Fraser was mad. They'd been professional as all righteous hell the entire afternoon, and now it was time to get personal.   
  
Ray managed to get his mouth open first. "I did *not* do anything I shouldn't have without consulting you, because it was my choice to ask you *both*, a choice any of us could have made at any time. Turnbull is not a baby and we do *not* decide things behind his back and only approach him after we've agreed on it about *anything*, that'd be *fucking* totally disrespecting him! How would you like it if he and I did that with you? About anything except maybe your birthday? Treated you like a child that way? It was my right to ask you both if you wanted to get a place together, and I did, and it's done! And if you hate my ass right now, I'll take it your answer's no, but you do not get to tell me I was out of line because I was *not*! I don't have to check with *you* before I ask Turnbull *anything*!"  
  
Left with nothing to do but sputter some version of "That's not so", Fraser forwent replying and marched into the kitchen, pulling down a cup from the cabinet and slamming open another door next to it to rummage for tea.  
  
"What, nothing to say? No logic, no moderation, no take-it-easy-on-Turnbull speech? Well, I sent him the *exact* same note I sent you, so--"  
  
"They looked like dinner invitations," Fraser muttered tightly.  
  
Ray deflated slightly, for the first time. "I thought they looked classy."  
  
Fraser sighed, letting his head fall foward to bump the cabinet front. "They did, Ray. Like classy dinner invitations. He was carrying one, too, unopened. So I assumed it was some consular function and didn't get around to opening mine until--"  
  
"Until he'd apparently already opened his, told Thatcher he felt sick and took off. And had apparently been taken off for a good couple of hours by the time you opened yours, nearly lost your pants, realized that Turnbull had been carrying one just like it when he gave you yours and you bolted for the front desk, et cetera. I know. You told me. As soon as you got to the station. Then you wouldn't let me ask you anything else. So spill. I know he's not answering his phone, and he doesn't have the consulate beeper; you'd have tried those first. Can I assume he's not answering his door?"  
  
Fraser was silent, staring into the empty tea mug, on the counter below where his head was leaning on the cabinet.   
  
"WELL?!"  
  
"I didn't try his door. He doesn't want us there, Ray. This has frightened him so badly he *left work*. He *lives* to serve the Crown and the RCMP. What do you think my banging on his door would do besides aggravate the problem, Ray? Just what do you think? He'd believe we'd stopped respecting his boundaries completely, which that note seems to indicate fairly well--"  
  
"I *asked* him to get a place with you and me. Asked him if he'd *like* to. Said I'd like to and wanted to know if he did. That's all."  
  
"To Turnbull, that's a marriage proposal. Actually, much worse than a marriage proposal."  
  
"Yeah, yeah, and you would know this how, supermountie? Your serge-enhanced spidey senses?"  
  
"In case you've failed to notice it, Ray, there are ways in which Turnbull and I are a GREAT deal alike!" Fraser snapped. "You seem to have some kind of...empathic connection with him. What I have is a great deal of experience in...things much like I suspect him of having been through, and my deductions have proven correct, to judge by his responses, so far. I know that if I were him, such a proposal, at such a time, would be enough to make me leave the relationship completely."  
  
Ray was silent. Then he said "That's why you're so pissed I didn't ask you. You think I've made him leave us."  
  
"Ray...I know you have. And I haven't the faintest idea of how to get him back."  
  
"It was a simple question! All he'd have to do would be say he didn't think he was ready! I thought--if he wasn't, and I knew he might not be--he'd probably be glad to help you and me find a place that maybe had an extra room we could use for somethin' else until..." Fraser turned away in obvious frustration and Ray flamed "You are jumping to *conclusions*, here! Wild-ass ones at that. Maybe he just had to think. It's a hell of a lot to think about. Just taking off from work doesn't mean--"  
  
"Oh, for--" Fraser spun back around. "You know Turnbull better than that; he'd never take off from work just to *think* about a private matter. As I said, that job is his *life*. PCP couldn't keep him home unless he was so ill he'd likely need hospitalizing anyway."  
  
"Fraser, that job and *us*--and *us*--" Ray enunciated clearly, "--are his life now, have *been* his life for four months. He's *crazy* for us. But...he still won't let us say I love you. He still won't let us in his place. He's still throwing down barriers and only just managing not to lie like a rug about his feelings, about himself, to us both! Somebody had to make a *move*, Fraser! Things were going *backward*, not forward, when it came to us three and the connection we all got--it was even messing with you and me at work. Whether it was messing with you and him at work--I'm guessing that as far as it could, in office work, it was. Deny that if you can."  
  
Fraser said nothing, still staring into the teacup.  
  
"Yeah, mister leaps-onto-moving-cars probably would have rather waited until Turnbull managed to widen the rift 'til it couldn't be closed--baby hated it, don't you understand? He was sadder and sadder, the farther from us he got--he doesn't want to leave us, Frase, but he was angling to, I know he was! I had to do something! I've wanted to get a place with you both for a couple months now, but I waited, wanted to give it enough time to be halfway reasonable. We may all have known each other for a long time, but we've only been close up and personal friends for about half a year of it. So I waited...and, the way things turned out, I ended up asking you both when *I* thought it was the best time for everybody concerned."  
  
"And are you happy with what you've accomplished?" Fraser said roughly, letting the top of his head bonk against the cabinet again, and Ray stared as a tear fell from Fraser's left eye, the one he couldn't see, and landed in the teacup. "Do you think your fabulous idea has mended all our rifts and made us see the light? No, it's driven one of us AWAY comPLETEly!" Fraser turned, dashing tears off his face with one hand. "We may see him again. He has his assigned posting and so do I. You and I have our liaison work. But he's left us, Ray. He just hasn't told us."  
  
"I don't believe that," Ray said, shaking his head steadily. "I don't. Yeah, maybe I scared him. Maybe he needed to be scared. Maybe he needed a little *push*, Fraser! I gave him time! Tons! Look, I happen to know that there are things I personally, myself, have to be pushed on in emotional areas, or I *won't deal*. You're the same way, only fifty times worse. And Turnbull--baby needed help, needed a *reason*, to get on the stick and really deal with some decisions that aren't *ever* gonna be easy to make because deciding wrong'll bring years worth of regret on him. We *all* duck decisions like that for as long as we can get away with it! I know it won't be easy for him. He might turn me down, about moving in. But if he doesn't go as far as getting a transfer out or something, he will stay with us. He needs us. He loves us. He knows it."  
  
"It isn't his own happiness he's primarily concerned with, Ray! If he believes that we would be better off without him--and he does love us, every bit as much as you say--there are no lengths to which he wouldn't go to see that we got what he believed we deserved--as much happiness as we could have. Yes, you've pushed him to a decision, Ray, but it's a bigger one than you know. He'll get that transfer if he can, if he decides that's the right thing to do. If never seeing either of us again is what he believes is the best way, he'll take every sick and personal day he's got until he's out of Chicago, and his relationship with inspector Thatcher is such that he might very well inform her of that intention so that she could one, understand his level of determination to transfer, and two, get a relief officer as her clerical aide. Then she'd file Turnbull the necessary forms for extended sick leave. If she's stymied by lack of official RCMP exam verification--though knowing Meg, I doubt she would be--she'll tell him so and grant a regular leave of absence. Or he could skip all that, just request and take the leave, and be out of our reach even as we stand here screaming at each other about it! You don't *know* him this way, Ray, you just don't KNOW! If he decides to tell you no, he will certainly leave us. If he leaves us, there is a high probability that neither of us are ever going to see him again."   
  
Ray was silent, frozen, expression furious, but eyes huge.   
  
"Ray...you were right," Fraser said softly, his expression suddenly almost pleading. "Something...maybe something *was* called for, and I was too afraid. Of...of rocking the boat, of risking the balance--that wasn't a balance, I know that now, I knew it then, deep down, too--to have the courage to do what needed to be done; namely, find some way to--to help Turnbull, in the same ways you and he have both helped me. Since I do know, better than you, because of...of our commonalties, Turnbull and I--what could and couldn't be risked without certain disaster, *I* should have done something, and I didn't; and I am sorry, Ray, honestly--so sorry I could..." he closed his eyes. "But that's of no use now. I didn't take action, and so you did, and now we have to deal with what's happened. Ray, I understand your point, obviously, about Turnbull needing something to galvanize him in some way--but remember, as far as the help you and he have given me...I *wanted* that help, Ray. I *asked* for it. Turnbull very decisively does *not* want it, has made statements to that effect, and, judging by his current *and* past behavior, will do very nearly anything to avoid it. Which brings me to...there's one more possibility, one more thing he might consider a viable, and necessary, course, that I..." he took a deep breath. "...that I haven't mentioned--"  
  
"Don't." Ray, in a desiccated voice, raised a hand to stop Fraser's words; the gesture was listless, made clumsy by the horror he was too shocked by realization to express. "Turnbull isn't like us. He isn't like other people. And he doesn't see..."  
  
"He doesn't see...certain things as being cowardly, morally wrong, or even--in his case--anything to get that excited about. He does live for his job *and* us, you're right. And I think you may be...more right than that--that perhaps, without us, his job would now suddenly reveal itself to him as...as..."  
  
"As the total armpit that it is, in terms of a reason to live for the rest of your life."  
  
"He *might* just wait for his transfer, but..."   
  
"No. You're right. I didn't...there's things I didn't want to see, didn't want to do, too, Fraser. We both go down for that on this one. Like you said, he probably wouldn't see us again, if he decided no, no matter what it took," Ray finished. "No matter what..." he trailed off, his eyes looking into some despairing middle distance.  
  
Fraser suddenly strode away into the living room. "Dief. DIEF!" But the half-wolf was asleep, and Fraser was forced to shake him awake.  
  
"Dief, you have to tell me something. I know Turnbull may not want you to, but it's important. If...if he were...endangering us, if...he thought we'd be better off without him, do you think..."  
  
Fraser stared as Dief muttered and mumbled, then lay back down on the rug and closed his eyes.  
  
Fraser didn't move.  
  
"Well!?" Ray demanded.  
  
"Dief thinks it's a silly question. Anyone who endangers the pack is a liability. You see, wolf packs are hierarchical structures, led by a mated alpha pair, and survival of the strongest is the rule. The lower in the hierarchy you are, the less strong you are, by definition, as strength--determined by wolf standards--determines your position in the pack in the first place. In our case...Turnbull knows he is the lowest in the hierarchy. It doesn't matter how *we* feel about it; that's the way *he* sees it. If he became a liability, he wouldn't even try to maintain his place in the pack; nor would the pack, unless perhaps the lowest member had a mate in that position with him or her, try to assist that member. He or she would take the injury or illness off somewhere..."  
  
It didn't need finishing, but Ray finished anyway. "And fucking die, is that it? Well, Dief ain't a shrink, and Turnbull's not a wolf."  
  
Fraser looked up at him slowly. "Dief sees things in terms of what he's familiar with. He senses that Turnbull feels, and is quite aware, of his position as lowest member of our pecking order; even if you and I don't feel even remotely that way about it, Turnbull does. Dief was only telling me what he *knew* Turnbull would do from what Turnbull himself has said to him, because Turnbull will tell Dief things he would never, ever say to us. Dief isn't guessing, or projecting. Dief knows. Turnbull believes there are times--*for himself*--that suicide would be warranted. Just as Dief believes it."  
  
Ray's voice was high, near tears. "Well for Christ's sake don't just--is he gonna do it? Is that what Dief said?"  
  
"No. Only that it's not outside the realm of possibility that he might do it if it was the only way, by his reckoning, to save us from him, or if...if he...two reasons he might. He knows we love him--or, to his reckoning, believe we love him. That we'll come after him, try to find him, if he runs away, and he knows I can do it. Not today or tomorrow, but soon. And...without us, and with the realization that he...is doing work anyone who's been within half a mile of a trade school could do at least as well and has little chance of ever doing anything significantly different in the RCMP, and believing that he...can't...won't fit in, won't ever..."  
  
"Frase..." Ray got down on his knees by the floundering Fraser, who had tears streaking his cheeks, though his voice had been steady. "Anything like...this has...something like this, this happen? To...with you?"  
  
Fraser's face was devoid of any expression, his voice flat. "Yes, several times. Diefenbaker saved me from one. It was the only...actual *attempt*..."  
  
"Prince Rupert Sound."  
  
"I let everyone think it was an accident, and...just went on with living, day to day...I couldn't let Diefenbaker's sacrifice be in vain. I couldn't be...shamed by a wolf. He gave me perspective. He saved my sense of self for me, Ray. When people...when they actually try...their sense of self, of existing as a real, viable person...is usually nearly gone already. Biological death doesn't seem like much of a step."  
  
"What happened with you, that's why you were so afraid..."  
  
"To push. Yes, but only in a sense. I do know what would have happened if anyone had done that to me. The opposite of their intention, that's what."  
  
"You're afraid Turnbull will do something drastic."  
  
"Maybe not...suicide, specifically, but drastic, yes. I know what it is to honestly *know* that as an individual, you are worth nothing in the grand scheme of things; and that your existence may be actively causing harm, in...whatever way. The specifities aren't important. I know what it is to live with that knowledge for so long...that death is a presence, beside you every day, and you cease to fear it. You even become friendly with it. It ceases to be...a matter for morals, or courage, or the lack of either. For *you*, it's simply a matter of...plain practicality." He managed to focus on Ray. "But he isn't me, Ray. He feels, he has love, he lives and breathes, his heart beats. He might call it cowardice in himself, he might blame himself, if he can't make himself end his own life; but there's a good chance that the extreme I turned to as...phlegmatically as one might solve any irritating problem...won't be the first thing *he* tries. He might think he should, but I'd bet that he won't."  
  
"Okay, you're the one in his head right now. What *would* he do?"  
  
"He isn't stupid. He may know he could get rid of me simply by not answering even if I came to his apartment to check on him, but he knows that you wouldn't be turned away so easily, that you'd make...serious effort to get him to answer, and that your temper might inspire you to gain entry any way you could, where I would hesitate...because of legalities, and because of his expressed wish. Since he knows that you are now a factor out of my control--whether he thought you remained within certain bounds to please me or him, or for any other reason--and just how big an uncontrolled factor you are, thanks to that note, he could panic. We all know what happens when he does that, so we can only pray he hasn't; if he has, there's simply no telling--"  
  
"So if he's...still with us, he's not there," Ray cut in, getting back to the issue of Turnbull's apartment. "*If* he's already decided to turn me down. If he hasn't, he might be at his place, still undecided enough to be willing to tell me to fuck off, 'til he's thought about it, through the door." He fumbled for his cell, in the pocket of the jacket he still wore. "If I call the station, get a blue-and-white to check on him, he'll probably think it was Thatcher--tried to call him and didn't get an answer, and assumed he needed help--which would make sense to her; he does *not* take off work any more than you do; he felt bad enough to leave, she'd worry. Us, he likely wouldn't let in; a couple of patrol cops he doesn't know personally, I'm willing to bet there'd be no problem, so I'll tell 'em we got reason to believe he could be incapacitated in there, which unfortunately--" he gulped uncertainly, "which unfortunately is not a lie, and it doesn't put any suicide shit on his jacket, either, if it's not the case; he did supposedly leave work sick, not upset or whatever, and that's what I'll say--maybe bad sick, too sick to get the phone or the door."  
  
"He'd probably open the door to police officers, but yes, and have them call your cell with what they find; you and I will be trying to find him elsewhere, and I believe I know where we should look first."  
  
Ray was dialing, putting the phone to his ear. "Yeah?"  
  
"Yeah. He may not be there, but it's a place to start--a good place, I think."  
  
***  
  
The Iron Pentagram.  
  
The Pentagram of Pearl.  
  
The chalice meditation.  
  
Journey meditations--some of which Fraser might call "trances".  
  
Dark of the Moon mystery meditations.  
  
He wondered why he was bothering.  
  
"There are no answers here."  
  
*these are intended to help you discover what the right questions might be* *and why they are the right questions* *they give stability* *and greater understanding* *but they do not hand out answers* *remember* *if what you seek* *you find not within yourself* *you will never find it without* *they merely help you understand enough to make your own choices* *if you are resisting making your own choice* *then they will not speak to you*  
  
Well, that seemed to be true; for another thing, his tarot cards simply weren't talking to him. None of the spreads appeared to have anything to do with the situation. The closest he could get were all the pentacles which kept turning up, relating to his work, particularly the seven and eight, warning him that he might never advance beyond apprentice level, and that the labors necessary to reap what rewards there *would* be, would be hard. Beyond that, nothing...spoke to him.   
  
*you said it before* *when you wondered why you were bothering*  
  
He was quiet a moment, then said "I know the answer."  
  
*you know what you believe to be the answer* *you do not like it* *but you know it*   
  
"I have to leave them now. This is the time, the signal, this note, this...question, this. It's over. It's all over." He contracted into a ball, face buried. He was crying now, the rough, deep, agonized sound of a grown man in utter desolation. Truly, honestly crying.  
  
And nobody heard.   
  
Nobody ever would.  
  
Ever.  
  
He *was* already nothing.  
  
"Is that really the answer?"  
  
*what do you believe*  
  
"I don't know, I don't know--I don't *want* to know--"  
  
*there are times it is best to take no action*  
  
"Is this one of those times?"  
  
*ground* *center* *what do you believe*   
  
"I believe...that right now...I can see only my fears."  
  
*fears which are real* *but not all of reality*  
  
"Then I should wait. Until...until my perspective is...more balanced. If...if it seems then that it's still the answer, then I should do whatever's necessary, but..."  
  
*time*  
  
"Yes. I need time. I need time...but I know they won't give me...won't want to give me...Ray, he's..."  
  
*ground* *center* *think* *then see the way*  
  
***  
  
"Inspector, I'm terribly sorry to bother you on your own time, but--"  
  
"We need to know if you've seen Turnbull," Ray cut in, elbowing his way in front of Fraser. "It's urgent."   
  
"He went home sick just before lunch," she said, standing in the doorway of her apartment, in a plush terry bathrobe. "You're well aware of that, Constable."  
  
"I am, yes, sir, but--"  
  
"Look, just tell us. You seen him or heard from him since then, or not?"  
  
"Have you tried his apartment, by any chance?" Thatcher said, rolling her eyes. "I'm not his keeper, you know."  
  
"No, sir, of course not," Fraser said quickly, fiddling with his hat. "But if you have any idea where we might find him--his...his apartment has been checked, yes, he's not there."  
  
"Perhaps he's asleep."  
  
"We had a blue-and-white bust his lock. He's not there," Ray said. "They couldn't tell if anything was missing; and Fraser won't let us--as long as he's not there anyway--look, could you just tell us--"  
  
"Then I suppose a check of the area hospitals would be in order, wouldn't it? It is quite rare for him to leave work. He may have gone to make certain he's not in any danger, though he was quite mobile and functional when he left. Why don't you get started on that, Constable, and I'll see what I can do from my end--contact his family, known associates, his own doctor--that sort of thing. I have a laptop here and the clearance necessary to access his files in computer records, so--"  
  
"Tell. Us. If. You've. Seen. Him. Before I kick you in the head!"  
  
"Ray!"  
  
Thatcher just gave Ray a dry look. "Try it. I'll have you by the foot and on your face in the floor before you can say 'stupid idea'."   
  
"Look, I--" Ray's eyes widened. "That's it, Frase, he's in there. He's in your fucking apartment! Turnbull! Turnbull, it's us, it's me and Frase, come on, just talk to us, just let us--"  
  
Suddenly, he found himself bodychecked against the wall. "You can control yourself, or you can be rendered semiconscious and sitting on the front walk, Detective." She eased back, and the dark sparkles faded from his vision. "In case you hadn't noticed, you're in a state of panic. If I *had* seen Turnbull since he left the consulate, about which I am saying nothing, I would not give you any information that might allow you near him as long as you are raging about like a lunatic." She stepped away, releasing him entirely, and he coughed a couple of times, glowering at her, but quiet.  
  
She readjusted the belt of her robe and said "Since I know how...fond you are of constable Turnbull, I'll tell you this. He's currently in no serious physical danger."  
  
"You've got him in there," Ray muttered tightly. "I know it. I can feel him. Either he's in there...or he *was* in there. And I bet you know where he is now."  
  
"I'm not going to give you any positive or negative responses to any of your guesses, Detective, so you might as well give up on that angle. You can't fluster me into an inadvertent response."  
  
"You can't, Ray," Fraser added quietly.  
  
"I believe it," Ray snapped. "Definitely I believe it. But it's not a guess."  
  
"Oh?" She raised an eyebrow. "You're clairvoyant? I'm surprised your closure rate isn't one hundred percent."  
  
"I ain't--what you said, I--"  
  
"Telepathic, then? Simply read my mind, if that's so."  
  
"I wouldn't touch your mind with the longest stick I could find. I might freeze over."  
  
"Ray," Fraser said desperately.  
  
"If Turnbull were in my apartment, and had any desire to see you, he would be standing here. Therefore, he is either not in my apartment or has no desire to see you. There's nothing more to be said. I can make the checks I said I would, if you'd like, and give you what information I find. You can call the local hospitals yourselves, as well as check any friends he has you might--"  
  
"He has us," Fraser said softly. "No one else. Except..."  
  
"Except you," Ray said. "He has you, doesn't he?"  
  
"I don't know what you mean by that, Detective, and I don't care. This conversation has exhausted all its usefulness. So, Constable--" she looked at Fraser. "Unless there's anything else I can help you with...?"  
  
"Sir..." Fraser just stared at her, his eyes glimmering.  
  
She softened; even though she changed neither her stance nor her expression, Ray could somehow see it, a softening--that was the best word he could come up with. She said "Fraser...I can't give you details. I can't even tell you where he is, and I'm not saying if that's because I don't know or because I won't say. But I *can* tell you...I am on the case. Do you trust me?"  
  
He took a deep breath, looked at the floor, and nodded, his hat held to his chest with both hands.  
  
"Then let it be for now. I'll let you know--" she glanced back at Ray. "--when it's time to panic." He glared at her. She looked back at Fraser. "Is that enough for you, Constable?"  
  
"No," he said faintly. "It isn't. But it will have to do. You...can tell us? You can call Ray's cell if...if there's any reason..."  
  
"I will call you if I believe there is any reason for...immediate alarm on behalf of his condition. I asked you if you trusted me, Constable, and you answered in the affirmative. Do you wish to reconsider your answer?"  
  
"Fuck yeah he--"  
  
"Ray." Fraser took a breath. "No. I don't. But I want to ask you another question. It's...personal. To you."  
  
She blinked, then looked thoughtful, folding her arms. "You can ask. I reserve the right not to answer, but I won't get angry."  
  
"Thank you. What, exactly, does constable Turnbull mean to you, Inspector?"  
  
"I will assume you mean...off the record."  
  
"Yes, sir. It's definitely an off-the-record question."  
  
"I feel a great deal of affection for constable Turnbull, Fraser. I feel a great deal of...protectiveness. In a non-condescending fashion, of course."  
  
"Of course," Fraser agreed quickly.  
  
"But I care very much what happens to him. Perhaps not the same way you do," she said quietly, and Ray managed not to let his jaw drop too far; something about the way she said it--she knew. She might not know details, but the big picture, she knew. "But I do care very much. Now I think you should try to get some rest, and not distress yourself with imaginings. Many fears are born of fatigue..."  
  
"...of fatigue, and loneliness." He smiled a little. "I'll try to remember that. Do you think...that we might be hearing from Turnbull soon?"  
  
"I would say you will hear from him in the next few days, if not sooner, but I can't guarantee that. It is my personal belief, though, that you *will* hear from him."  
  
"Thank you, Inspector. That...means a great deal."  
  
"I know, Fraser," she said softly. "Now, you and your...friend should do as I say, and try to relax. Go...go home. In fact, why don't you pick up the rest of your things from the consulate on the way."  
  
Fraser tried not to go pop-eyed, but failed; Ray could only stare. Fraser cleared his throat and said "Yes, we'll...we'll do that..."  
  
"If you like, I'll leave your official temporary residence as the consulate on the paperwork."  
  
"For...for the time being. Yes, that would be...that's very considerate of you, sir, I...thank you."  
  
"Thank me by helping me deal with tomorrow without Turnbull. I'll have someone with the experience come from document processing, or wherever we can best spare someone, to answer the phones and do a good part of his general receptionist work, and some of his clerical aide job--I'll see to the temporary reassignment and pay adjustments--and fortunately Turnbull is meticulous with his notes, and keeping copies of his receptionist's standard procedures and regulations on hand. But he did quite a few things for us--for one thing, he can forge both our signatures perfectly." Her mouth quirked. "Though he did mine more often, naturally. And he was able to use his own, having RCMP officer status to do so, for quite a few things as well. So, I'm afraid we'll be busier than usual, with splitting that aspect of his job between us for tomorrow and Friday."  
  
"Oh. My, yes, I hadn't thought of...I suppose I've been taking him for granted at work, haven't I?" He spoke quietly, sounding a bit ashamed.  
  
"I've taken both of you for granted, more than once, so don't flagellate yourself. His devotion to efficiency and attention to detail make it easy to forget that not everyone in such jobs is him."  
  
"I'd best to get to bed early, then."  
  
"Yes, and above all, don't worry. There's no need as yet." She spoke with quiet authoritativeness, but to Ray, she sounded...soothing. *Mother is here*, he thought. *Mother will watch. Sleep and peace attend thee...*  
  
"If you say so," Fraser said, and sounded like he believed it. "Thank you, Meg."  
  
"No thanks needed. I'll see you tomorrow. You--" she turned to Ray. "Take a pill. I mean it. Have a drink or something. *A* drink, not the bottle."  
  
"Yes, your holiness."  
  
"And hold on to Fraser. He won't let you fly off into space." She went back inside and shut the door.  
  
Ray stared at the door until he felt Fraser take his hand and squeeze it. "Ray. Let's go. We'll pack my things. That should keep us occupied, and then we'll get some rest."  
  
"So...you're sayin' yes?"  
  
Fraser smiled slowly. "On the recommendation of my superior officer..."  
  
"Asshole." Ray smiled.  
  
"Yes, Ray, I'd like to live with you," Fraser said seriously. "I can keep my cot, and a few spares of the essentials, at the consulate to cover the paperwork deception, and in case I need them--for the same reason you sleep at the station sometimes, I mean. Time enough later to worry about a larger apartment. There are...other considerations as well, but I think your closet space is adequate. I...hope to avoid that as a consideration, however."  
  
"I think we got enough room," Ray sighed. "Yeah. Okay, we'll go. I don't know whether to love your boss or hate her sometimes," Ray muttered as they started for the elevator.  
  
"I have a difficult time sorting through my feelings for her as well. She and I have a great deal in common...but they're different things than Turnbull and I have in common. Except what we all have in common--being sent to Siberia for unfair reasons."  
  
"Hey. This is my hometown."  
  
"But it isn't our home, Ray. Nothing personal against Chicago. It could be anywhere that we'd been sent because we'd had the misfortune to irritate someone who had no scruples about using their position against a fellow RCMP member for reasons of a personal nature."  
  
"I guess. You...don't have all that much to pack, do you?"  
  
"Very little. As I've already got duplicates of the necessities at your apartment and the consulate, there's only my trunk--one of the few things to survive the fire; it was returned to me care of the consulate...I'm not quite sure by who." He coughed. "Or, ahm. Exactly how, that is..."  
  
"Well, it's good you got it back. I know it must be pretty messed up..."  
  
"It probably fell through weakened flooring and was protected by debris falling on it, because it's not in as bad condition as I would have expected." Fraser said this quickly, as though it were some kind of rehearsed line. Ray gave him a look, but didn't say anything as Fraser finished "There's that, and a few other things in storage at the consulate, and then...save for officially changing my address..."  
  
"It's okay with that, Frase, we don't know how long we're gonna be staying there," Ray said as the doors closed on them. "Change it when we know for sure what to change it to."  
  
"I have no problem with my official address being the same as yours, Ray, I just want you to know that."  
  
"I know that." Ray smiled, and squeezed the hand Fraser was still holding. Then he sighed.   
  
"I know," Fraser whispered as the elevator descended. "But...try to think of it as...no. Just try not to think of it. There's nothing we can do for now."  
  
"But she can. I hate that, Frase."  
  
"On the contrary. I think she's the perfect person to help Turnbull right now. She cares, but she isn't so close she'd misguidedly try to stop his doing whatever he thought he needed to do. She does not, however, have any sympathy for hysterics, as you may have noticed. I think there are things he wouldn't dare, while...in any kind of communication or connection with her. If he knows she's aware of his...situation, and is abreast of it, she can help him...keep perspective."  
  
"I love him so much, Fraser."  
  
"I do, too, Ray."  
  
"An' I love you."  
  
Fraser kissed him on the mouth, quick, but soft and moist, just before the doors opened. "I love you, too," he whispered.  
  
***  
  
"They've gone."  
  
"I know." Turnbull sat on the bed in the spare room, slumped, head down.  
  
"I'll be having leftovers for dinner this evening; you're welcome to order something in if you don't want to join me. It's medium-spicy chili; I'm folding it into chapatis, with a choice of condiments. There's plenty; I'm afraid I'm not very good at sizing down recipes."  
  
"That sounds quite...quite..." Turnbull sniffed. "Sir..."  
  
"Turnbull, we agreed," she said quietly. "You aren't to worry about disturbing my routine or getting in the way; it simply isn't possible with me. You know me that well." She smiled dryly. "The way I see it, I'm in a position to help a fellow officer in need, one who's done me a great deal of good service as my aide. You wouldn't have come to *me* on a whim; if you're here, it's serious. I can figure out that much."  
  
"As...yes, as I said..."  
  
"Ah, ah--" she waved a hand, silencing him. "You explained, as much as you were able, and I quite frankly don't want you trying to tell me anything that's at all difficult for you to tell. It's probably best that I not know. I have the space, and as I said, if you're in my way at all, I'll tell you. You have the time to take. Just take it, and do what you need to do. As you heard, Benton is reassured, but he still doesn't know where you are; don't worry on either point. Ray suspects, but he won't make trouble." Her voice softened. "You're safe here. Just get some rest. I'll tell you when supper's ready."  
  
"Thank you, sir. I am...very tired."  
  
"Yes, you look terrible. I've never seen you so lacking in...life, really. So I'll be keeping an eye. If you really are sick, to the doctor you go, understood?"  
  
"Understood, sir. But I'm not physically..."  
  
"Not yet, perhaps. We'll see that it stays that way. I have a light sedative pill I'm going to ask you to take tonight--the dosage is for me, so it can't possibly be too much for a healthy man your size. You don't have any odd reactions to benzodiazepines, do you?"  
  
"No, sir."  
  
"Good." She came into the room, laying a hand on his shoulder. "You just...meditate, or pray, or whatever it is you do--that's a fascinating statue, by the way."  
  
"It's not rare. I have a couple of them."  
  
"Still, I like the understated nature of it. I can't say I understand this neopagan business, but it certainly seems harmless enough; and if it does you good, feel free to practice it in my spare bedroom. Just let me know if you're going to light any incense. I'm partial to frankincense, if that helps. Try to keep any saltpeter charcoal tablets to a minimum, if possible; the charcoal smell lingers. And remember Fraser's sense of smell. He may show up here again, though not if he has the faintest idea what's good for him."  
  
Turnbull smiled, a little. "Understood, sir."  
  
"See you at supper then." She swept out of the room, closing the door behind her.  
  
Turnbull hugged Heathcliff close, pressing his face into the plush, and curled up on the bedspread in a fetal position, his hastily thrown-on jeans and t-shirt not impeding his movements.   
  
He was still there, motionless, when she tapped lightly on the door, to summon him to eat.   
  
*Go eat*  
  
"I'm going." He sat up slowly. "Yes, sir, I'll be right there."  
  
"This may not make any difference at all," he murmured.  
  
*but at least your decisions won't be made out of panicked despair*  
  
"No. Well-considered despair." He sighed, squeezed Heathcliff, and left him in a comfortable spot on the pillow, going out in his stocking feet to the kitchen.  
  
It was impossible, of course, but if anyone had been there to see, the expression on the toy's face might have looked at bit...fallen, somehow. Sad.  
  
***  
  


  
 

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End Requiescat III: And Peace Attend Thee by Blue Champagne 

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